


And The Devil Makes Three

by Radioinactivity



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dante Navigates Complicated Family Dynamics, Family Drama, Gen, Past OC/Canon, Platonic Relationships, Rampant speculation on Nero’s mom and the DMC world in general
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2019-07-10 21:31:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 62,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15957938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radioinactivity/pseuds/Radioinactivity
Summary: Months after Temen-ni-gru, Dante searches to understand his twin and finds the family he left behind.





	1. Friend of a Friend

There is one economical way to get to the island of Fortuna and it is misery. Plenty of boats go to and from the island at any time of the year, but those passenger ferries are for curious tourists and they're not cheap. Especially if you're on a shoestring budget because you haven't been able to get any work in the last two weeks. No, for the dead-broke traveler trying to reach _Isola della Spada_ , as some of the mainlanders call it, the only option is to give a fishing boat captain about thirty bucks and a pack of cigarettes, pop a fistful of Dramamine, and tuck into a corner of the dinghy that feels stable.

Dante groans and drops himself forward to rest his forehead against his knees. This feels like complete bullshit to him. He's been shot, stabbed, burned, hit with a car, thrown out of a fifth story window, eaten by a flying whale-thing, and poisoned at least once and all of those he walked off. Seasickness should be the kind of thing he can power through as easily as a shot glass full of arsensic but nope. The only thing keeping him from losing the burger he had on the drive here is raw willpower. Then the boat roils underneath him again, lifting up and dropping down, and he can feel the grip on his stomach slipping. So much for Dramamine.

"Aye, boy, you alive in there? We'll be at the docks in a tic," the captain calls from outside the cabin door and Dante gurgles in affirmation. It takes him a few minutes to make his legs work, but eventually he pulls himself off the bench at the back of the lower cabin, picks up his guitar case, and half-stumbles out onto the deck. The crew - which is just the captain and his sons - give cordial nods to their passenger as they work to bring the old trawler into the harbor. The castle town of Fortuna looms beyond them.

It's bigger than he realized, sprawling out wide with spires jutting up into overcast skies, lights in windows glowing orange as dusk falls. There are only a few boats in a harbor that looks as if it used to hold far more and not many people milling around. Most seem to be dockhands or rich tourists getting off the late ferry, but he spies a few in hoods pulled low to conceal their faces and, concerningly, a duo of guards armed with swords walking along the docks. He shifts the guitar case on his shoulder and takes hold of nearby rigging as the boat lurches one last time on choppy waters.

"We beat the storm just in time," the captain calls to Dante, between shouting directions at the son steering the boat into port. Soon they've come up along the docks and the second son - he older one, he thinks- hops out to tie the ship down. Dante watches him call instructions to the younger up in the bridge only for his little brother to yell back, with deep annoyance, that he knows what he's doing. They bicker even as they work, exchanging barbs until the boat is secured in place and Dante can haul himself out of the boat. He's eager to get on solid ground and away from the sudden nagging familiarity swelling inside his chest.

"Be here by 11AM tomorrow if you wanna ride back with us. Otherwise you're gonna have to pay someone else to carry you, kid," says the captain, finally lighting one of the cigarettes Dante gave him on the mainland. He pops a lazy salute up to his forehead as he walks backward along the wooden dock. Both of the brothers give him a jovial goodbye despite the arguing they were just doing. Above them, the sky rumbles the first warning of a building storm.

\--

Into Fortuna he goes. It already feels like a bad idea or, at least, money misspent. He has no idea what he's even doing, chasing after rumors of someone that he knows is gone. He should leave it alone and get on with his life. The shop has a name, albeit not a customer base, and he isn't earning any money on some island in the middle of nowhere.

Yet Dante couldn't ignore Morrison's offer of information either. The chance to learn where Vergil had been before he turned up in his city that night. The question had been nagging at him relentlessly in the weeks and months after the tower, long after he had convinced Lady he was all right. He didn't know why that specific question ate at him so much. It just seemed like the right one to ask, the one that would make sense of everything. If he knew where Vergil had been, what his twin had done before Temen-ni-gru, then maybe he would understand why things ended the way they did. Dante mentioned it in passing to his old contact and eventually he got an answer in the form of this island. No idea _what_ brought Vergil here, but he came and went often enough to get noticed by Morrison's vast network. Not just to the city in general but to a single, specific place over and over - a store for antiques, oddities, and rare books.

Thunder rolls and the first drops of rain plink into his hairline. The another and another and soon those few drops have turned into quiet, steady shower. He swears under his breath and yanks the hoodie he's wearing underneath his coat up over his head. The lamps lining the tiny backstreet pop on one after the other, casting everything in a soft, golden light - including the written directions Morrison gave him.

A junk shop is not what he expected out of his twin, though he isn't sure what would suit him. It's hard to anticipate something out of someone he barely knew. Every time he encountered Vergil in the ten years following their mother's murder, his brother had changed. Quieter, colder, more threatening than any merc or demon he's ever stared down. There were plenty of rumors about his sibling to go along with the demeanor too. A young teenager in blue slaughtering the inner circle of Verona Beach's largest crime family. A trail of bounty hunters and mercenaries - trying to claim the price on his head - left eviscerated with a few lucky to survive. Plenty of rumors about a dangerous man consorting with monsters and devils, setting them free.

Dante heaves a long sigh that comes out cloudy. The temperature is dropping with the rain. Once again he skims over the piece of paper in his hand to double check where he's going, then folds it up and tucks it into his pocket so the rain won't keep smearing his instructions. His fingers are starting to feel numb but at least the weather means the streets are quiet. The occasional car rolls by and the one cafe he passes seems plenty busy with people's voices and music muffled by the downpour. But he's only passed a few other individuals on the sidewalk and none of them have given him so much as a glance.

The time's beginning to get away from him and he has no idea how long he's been walking. The only thing he knows is what Morrison told him and what Morrison told him is that this junk shop wasn't too far from the docks. Fortuna is definitely not his usual stomping grounds. The city is most infamous for a local religion that deifies his father and of course this is the kind of place Vergil would frequent, right? Maybe that's what brought him here in the first place. At least Dante's starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. On the other side of the crosswalk is the bodega Morrison mentioned and, right beside it, an alley leading down a short flight of stairs.

"This had _better_ be worth this hike."

The alley is small and tucked away from the hum of the rest of the residential district - the stairs lead down further than Dante expects and open to a tightly packed row of mismatched townhomes. Most of them are lit up and he can hear quiet piano music drifting through the air. He lifts his eyes and spots an old woman smoking on her covered balcony next to a record player. She notices him watching and scoffs to herself.

"So you're finally back, huh?"

So Vergil really did come here regularly. Enough to be recognized by the locals, anyways. All he can think to do is nod gruffly in response. If he opens his mouth and talks, then she'd immediately know the difference.

"Bah. Rude as always."

That's Vergil all right. He keeps walking the uneven cobblestone street to the very last townhouse dead-ending the row. Sure enough, there's a set of signs hung by the door advertising "Antiques & Oddities." Its curtains are drawn but warm light glows behind the second floor windows and he can barely make out a silhouette shifting around. The old man really never has sent him on a goose chase, has he? Dante finds himself grinning a little as he approaches the door but it fades when he realizes that he has to ring the bell.

"All right, big bro," he mutters to himself and nervously lifts a hand to the doorbell. "What are you hiding..."

He presses the button and listens to the rattling of a bell somewhere inside. At first, there's no response. Of course there isn't - the sign in the shop window says "Closed" - but someone is clearly home. So he pushes it again and holds his breath. Then there's the tell-tale sound of feet coming down stairs and then one, two, three? locks sliding out of place. He's still holding his breath when the door opens and a woman's annoyed voice chimes:

"Sorry, but I'm-Oh!"

Her distracted gaze turns to look at him and take in who exactly is in front of her and he does the same. She's young - his age? - and pretty. Visibly exhausted with dark circles under her eyes but pretty. Her hair is a sheet of liquid red that falls into her face and hangs down past her hips. Amber eyes focus and study his face, flickering up and down. For one gossamer moment he's the most important person in the world when she almost breaks into a smile.

A moment which ends as soon as she realizes he doesn't recognize her. Her expression shifts, turns cold and dangerous. She backsteps and a weird shimmer runs through her hair from scalp to tip, like dim light passing through a fiber optic. He reaches for one of the guns strapped to the small of his back, and in the half-second it takes for him to level Ivory, there's a spike of red hair pressed deep enough against his throat to break the skin. Both of them fall perfectly still and Dante wiggles his index finger to show its distance from the trigger.

"Easy, easy. I'm not here to start any trouble."

"You're Dante."

"Huh! I'm surprised! I didn't expect him to tell anyone about me. You know how it is, being the black sheep and all. Though considering your ... everything, maybe you don-"

"Where is he."

Cutting him off with her voice sharp and the point of her hair pushing deeper. Reinforced by magic, controlled completely by the woman in front of him. He's not even surprised. It's a type of witchcraft that requires a level of skill that would impress his brother. He still flinches when it digs into his skin and hisses through his teeth. Ivory stays up and tucked beneath her jaw even as she tries to lean her head away from it.

"So what're you, his accomplice or something? Or did Arkham con you into getting involved too? You don't seem like the type to be taken in by bug-eyed freaks but what do I know?"

"Answer my question." Harsher this time with her mouth twitching, her throat tightening in an attempt to restrain herself from shouting. He can feel irritation itching up his spine. He's freezing cold, fingers gone completely numb at this point, he doesn't know what's going on, and now he's being too-slowly speared through the neck by a spike that isn't sharp enough to make it clean. If she doesn't want to raise her voice, he sure the hell will.

"I got bad news for you, sister. Vergil's _gone."_

The storm booms loud enough to shake the air and make the glass in her window frames rattle. Neither of them move but her expression goes almost unreadable. All of the irritation is gone and her eyes pull wider. Her jaw trembles as the silence that fell between them is abruptly shattered by an ear-piercing wail. At first he thinks it's a cat yowling but no, it's too loud, too distressed.

A baby?

Dante's stomach lurches up and his eyes focus on the mystery woman. She shrinks away from him, further into the shop, pulling the spike of her hair away from his neck. Her face has gone pale, her shaking hands fumble to grab at the doorknob. A flood of unexpected guilt washes over his entire body. He re-holsters Ivory and lifts both hands in surrender.

Whatever he was expecting, it's not this.

"What do you mean gone?"

Dante remains silent and still, trying to find something to say that will make this better, and comes up short. He looks at the young woman in front of him with strangest sense of helplessness blooming inside him. The rain won't let up. Over their heads, the baby keeps screaming.

"Get-" She looks over her shoulder then at Dante with her jaw set tight. "Get inside. Leave your... 'guitar' at the counter. The guns, too. Both of them."

There is no way this is what he thinks it is. It can't be. Vergil's not the type, right? He wants to outright ask her before stepping in, but she's already turned to stride toward the stairs at the back of her shop. It could be a trap. Plenty of demons can mimic the sound of a baby crying, after all. But he has a pretty good sense for traps and the only thing he can sense right now is the gut-twisting contempt he has for himself in the wake of her genuine shock. So he quickly shrugs the guitar case off his shoulder and fumbles to unbuckle his holsters.

"Close and lock the door behind you," she orders, the bite gone from her tone. "I know your mother raised you well enough to do that." Disappearing onto the second floor and leaving him confused and alone in the middle of a dusty shop full of strange curios. Within moments, he hears quiet shushing and the crying begins to taper off. He drops his guns onto the counter by an old analog cash register and a guest book, secures the door as ordered, and then follows after her.

"It's okay, it's okay..."

He can hear her murmuring as he ascends the stairs. The skin on his neck and down his back starts itching at the sound of her voice. Why? Is this nerves? This place feels like somewhere he shouldn't be, like he's intruding on something that was supposed to be kept secret.

The second floor landing opens to a small living room with books and notes scattered everywhere. They're piled on an old coffee table or stacked next to a lamp or sitting on the floor. Tucked next to the bay windows is a bassinet and standing next to that, with her back to him, is his strange host. She's holding a bundle wrapped in a blanket, swaying to and fro, keeping her head down. The crying has turned into unhappy whimpers every time the thunder rumbles outside.

When was the last time he felt this awkward in his own skin? Part of him wants to go downstairs, get his stuff, and leave. But his feet are rooted in place by the need to know that's growing out of control inside of his chest and taking hold of every part of his body.

"You got a name?" he finally forces himself to ask in a voice that comes out rougher and quieter and more nervous than he expected. She briefly glances over her shoulder, then returns her attention to the baby tucked against her chest.

"Aster."

The uncomfortable silence persists. It's like the tiny room is gradually shrinking around him. He's too loud, too graceless to handle something like this. If Vergil were here-- "What do you mean he's gone?" she repeats, softer this time.

He wonders if he's ever going to actually learn or if he's going to stay so stupid and tactless for the rest of his life. "Just that. I mean he fell." More of her attention falls on him and he squirms under unblinking amber eyes. "At the tower. Into..." His palm is stinging from the memory. One hand reaches to rub at the other to try and will it away. "...into the underworld."

By the way her eyes suddenly close tight, he guesses she understood all of that. She turns her head away to stare hard out of the windows in front of her, watching rain clatter against the old glass. It's the only sound for what seems like an eternity. Not even the baby is making sound. Dante finds himself focusing very specifically on that little bundle of blankets, watching it shift and squirm in contrast to how perfectly still Aster's become.

"He's a fussy little guy, isn't he?" He doesn't get a response. "So... is that..." The question keeps nagging and he can't not ask. It's the worst possible time to ask, he knows that, and his mouth verbalizes half of the question anyways.

Aster doesn't say anything. She shifts her weight to face him and he can actually see the baby swaddled in her hold. White hair frames chubby cheeks and icy blue eyes blink to fight off sleep. The baby - and Dante is pretty sure the baby is a 'he' by the blue onesie peeking out of the blanket - is ... small. Smaller than a normal newborn, he thinks, though Dante hasn't seen that many babies. But he wriggles around in Aster's arms until she adjusts him to tuck into the crook of her elbow and then goes more still, seemingly contented to be held tight.

That answers that. He'd ask to sit if he didn't feel like he was imposing on her so much already. The world feels off-kilter now. Vergil managed to have a kid without him ever knowing and now his twin is gone. So far out of their reach that he might as well be dead. No wonder Aster hasn't said a word since he told her. She's laid her own attentions on the boy in her arms, crimson hair falling into her face, hiding her expression from him. Just as abandoned as him.

"...what's his name?"

"Nero."

It's not a bad name. He wonders if she came up with it or if it was Vergil. He wonders how much Vergil actually cared. The ache in his palm returns, brighter than ever, and he couldn't force it away if he tried. He isn't sure if he's supposed to be angry; mostly he's miserable. Part of him wants to leave. He wants to put her and Nero out of his mind for the next eternity and go back to the Devil May Cry and drink until he stops thinking about his twin slipping through his fingers and falling into a yawning abyss that Dante couldn't follow his only family into.

Except that isn't exactly right anymore, is it? It wasn't his "only family."

"Listen, we barely know each other but-"

He doesn't get a chance to finish before Aster's voice cuts in. It's rough, shaking, but still harsh enough to shut him up. "N-no. No, I-" The words stop and she breathes in deep. "I-I don't want to listen. I want... I want you to go."

"Wh-"

"Because I know-" She sucks in a breath to steady her words. "I know what the plan was. And I know that if you're here and he's not then..." Her jaw trembles. She shakes her head and pulls Nero in closer. "...then it's because of you." If she's bothered by the way he flinches, then it doesn't show. "So you need to leave. Right now. Or I am going to make you leave." The long sheet of her hair twists around itself again, forming that familiar point, pulling it out of her eyes so he can clearly see the unrestrained loathing all over her face.

Oh. So it's like that. He can't really blame her, all things considered.

Both of his hands come up placatingly but he doesn't close the gap between them. That's right. He is an intruder in here. He needs to be making himself scarce. But Dante keeps looking at the two of them and the ache that's been chasing him since Temen-ni-gru grows stronger. It's in his bones, his DNA, the feeling of disappointment in yourself for letting something important slip away. It didn't have to happen like this but it did and it's just as much his fault as anyone else's. It hurts. But he keeps his hands up and takes a slow step toward the stairs. Aster's unblinking stare cuts deep into him and her protective hold on Nero moreso.

"Okay. Okay, don't worry, I'm going." Nodding toward the steps.

"You have thirty seconds."

"I'll be gone in ten."

Her mouth twitches. He doesn't need to be told again. Before Aster can finish that hole she tried to put in his neck, Dante hurries down the steps to the first level shop. Ebony, Ivory and his "guitar case" are all exactly where he left them - sitting next to her register and what looks like a guest book. It only takes him a few seconds to reholster his gun and swing the large case back onto his shoulder. She's going to come down here any moment now but he grabs the pen anyways.

The name of his shop, the number, and he's gone by the next time thunder claps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Dante. She'll come around.


	2. Progress, Not Perfection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dante is nothing if not stubborn.

Two months passed and not once was the voice on the other end of the Devil May Cry's phone Aster's.

He had gotten prank calls, requests for an exorcism, requests for an undertaker, the pizza place up the road asking when he was going to pay his tab, requests for a cab driver, and sometimes an actual job. But nothing from his ... Whatever she was to him. Probably not his sister-in-law. Vergil had caught him off guard with the whole "secret family" thing, but Dante was willing to bet what money he had that his twin hadn't gone that far.

"Can I get another shot," he mutters to the bartender across from him and Lady. Both give him sidelong glances. "Hey, I can afford it!" Mostly. Work had  _slightly_ picked up in the last few weeks and he had just got paid. Enough to handle the bills and still have scratch left over to buy a few extra shots of cinnamon whiskey. Who knew an old apartment block could become such a hive for demons? They surmised it had to be leftovers from Temen-ni-gru.

Fixing more things that Vergil screwed up.

"You're sulking again," Lady deadpans. She signals for the bartender to refill her beer as well. The bar up the block from the shop is pretty quiet this evening. The strip club adjacent to it hasn't yet reopened after the whole hell tower incident, so the crowd is thin on a Wednesday night. "This about your brother's baby mama?"

His whole face scrunches up. "Don't put it like that."

"What? She is."

He hadn't initially told Lady what happened. She only found out after he had to explain that he was broke because he spent all of his money on a poorly thought out trip to Fortuna, so could he please borrow some money? (He needed to pay that back.) Since then, she'd gotten good at sensing when the two were on his mind. Some nights he thought about it more than others. Tonight was one of them.

"Anyways, you should call _her_ or something. I'm sure Morrison can get the phone number if he found her in the first place." She sips on her beer with her chin propped in the flat of her palm. Dante makes another grumbled sound and his next shot is placed in front of him. "Or maybe you should let it go," she says as he drinks.

"Hell no!" Not as punchy sounding as he wanted, half-rasped really, thanks to the heat of the whiskey burning down his throat but he clacks his shot glass onto the bar. "Not even an option!"

"Women don't like pushy men," she retorts. In response, Dante points to the spot on his forehead where she shot him following many ill-fated flirting attempts. "Who says I like you?" His face falls into a perfect crescent moon frown and she cracks a grin. "I'm just saying. If she doesn't wanna know you, then she doesn't wanna know you."

He's considered that. If she has no interest in seeing him again then... Well, it wouldn't be fine but he'd accept it eventually. For all his bluster, he isn't in the business of harassing a single mom. A long, labored sigh slips out of him and he gestures for another shot. The bartender hesitates; Dante slaps another bill indignantly onto the counter.

"Boy, are you gonna be miserable tomorrow."

"I'll walk it off. And anyways." Thumb and index finger come up to press into the bridge of his nose. "Look. We got off on the wrong foot cause'a my big mouth, right? " Lady makes a thoughtful hum beside him out of sympathetic understanding. For Aster. "And I just-" He gestures in front of himself in an attempt to grab what he wants to say out of thin air. "I don't - ugh. I want to try one more time. 'Cause I don't want her to think she has to do this alone... or something," he finishes lamely, ignoring the agog expression on his partner's face.

"Huh. That's not what I expected out of you."

"Once you really get to know me, I'm a very deep person."

"Eh. Don't push it."

Dante's sixth, or maybe seventh, shot of the night is set in front of him, along with a glass of water. There's one for Lady too.

"You should bring her food," the bartender - a man named Eryn, with perfect hair and dark skin and the most beautiful face Dante has ever seen in his life - chimes in. Both hunters turn their attention from each other to him. He shrugs and picks up Lady's empty glass to take it to the sink. "Even if she's got money, I doubt she's got the time to actually pick up groceries. Babies are hard work with two people. Can't imagine how rough it must be to do it alone."

Both boggle at their longtime server. He looks between the pair of them with an eyebrow lifted and his mouth tucked to the side in visible annoyance.

"Don't get used to that, by the way. Normally I charge for advice but the two of you are so inept, I figured I ought to throw you a bone."

\--

Lady says driving for three hours to Porto Di Voglia to get on a boat for another hour to buy food for a woman who may or may not want to see him and might actually want him dead is completely insane. She's right of course. After two weeks of ruminating on the idea, he decides he's going to do it anyways. Dante doesn't do half-measures and waiting around for someone to call him is not his style. So he takes what money he has left - more than last time, less than he would like - and he makes the long trip.

He even manages to pay the same Captain and crew from his first go-around. The Captain's name is Claude; his two idiot sons are Marco and Emil. They rib him the whole trip to the island for laying around with a half dozen anti-nausea patches slapped all over his body that don't help at all. It seems he doesn't do well with boats even on the calmest of waters. Upon reaching the island, they point him in the direction of the closest grocer and Claude tells him to keep to the harbor side of the castle town.

"Less guards to give you trouble."

Though there's still a duo of them posted at a station by the docks. Both briefly turn their attention to Dante as he wanders by, then scoff when he tries to greet them. He's pretty sure one of them calls him a "heretic" under his breath. He's been called worse many times before but it's a strange insult. It hangs out at the back of his mind as he heads into the harbor side residential district, per the Captain's directions.

He's here earlier this time. Instead of the foreboding shadows of a brewing storm at twilight, Fortuna's looming spires and Gothic archways are brilliant gray against a blue autumn sky. It's easier to see the centuries on every wall in the light but it doesn't feel so impenetrable. It helps that there's people walking the streets. Though there are a few in hoods, most are without. The locals without seem content to either ignore him as a tourist or sell him something, like the flower vendor he passed. The rare hooded folk coming out of a store or walking the streets regard him more suspiciously. He passes a pair of them by and again catches murmurs of "heresy." Dante wonders if they can sense the demon in him... or maybe he smells because he spent his morning on a fishing trawler.

Eventually (with some searching) he finds the store the Captain directed him too. Smaller than anything back on his home turf, bigger than a bodega, but it has what he needs in its cramped shelves. He even has a list. Granted, Lady wrote most of it with some input from Eryn so it's on a bar napkin. It occurs to him that it's been shamefully long since he's bought actual groceries at an actual grocery store. Usually it's pizza or whatever other garbage he buys on the way home from a job. Lately he's picked up a taste for strawberry ice cream.

"That's a bold choice, man," the clerk remarks once he gets to the counter. Dante looks over his shoulder, expecting someone she knows to be standing behind him. "Uh, the hair?" It's been a while since anyone commented on his hair. So he continues to look at her in confusion. "Ah god, you're a tourist. Look, don't worry about it. Just don't go to the big cathedral or the opera house and you'll be cool. And uh... invest in a hat? In fact, I've got these cool souvenir caps-"

**"Hard pass."**

"Ugh, fine. I gotta try." She bags the last of his food. "Have a nice day! Stay out of trouble!"

Weird town.

\--

It's easier to find Aster's place on his second attempt, which is good because he's already tired of carrying around two armloads of food. The little shop tucked away in its alley has an open door today and no old women on balconies to yell at him. He still hesitates at the end of the street. The sense that this is a terrible idea returns with a vengeance but he's come too far to turn back. And he's never run away from a fight before. Why would this be any different? Of course his brain instantly starts listing off a laundry list of why "trying to be friends with your brother's secret whatever-she-is" is leagues different from fighting an apartment block full of demons. He dismisses all of them and walks up to the building at the end of the street and into the shop.

In the light of day, with all the curtains open and no one trying to spear him, it seems less threatening. The walls are lined in equal part with dusty books and strange trinkets. A few things he recognizes as alchemical tools but the majority of her collection is esoteric. Bone-like structures suspended in jars, bronzed clawfeet holding shimmering stones, a pair of what he thinks are elaborate death masks, and a half dozen framed pages of something written in old demonic script. There's also a snowglobe. So... less threatening, more bizarre. It almost feels kind of homey to him. The Devil May Cry has its fair share of strange things hanging on its walls, after all.

And behind the counter sits Aster, hair safely (he assumes) braided and hanging over her shoulder, head tilted to focus on the book in her lap. A hand is stretched out to the side to rock a cradle back and forth with such absent minded ease that he's sure she's been at that for a while. So fixated on whatever it is she's reading, she doesn't even hear him walk in until his weight settles on a particularly creaky floorboard. Then her head snaps up and, upon realizing who it is, her expression sours.

"Nice to see you again, too."

"What are you doing here? ... And why do you have food?"

Dante hoists up the paper bags in his arms to adjust their weight. Even with her obvious dislike so incredibly apparent, he can't help but grin a little. "This is what some folks call a peace offering."

Aster immediately squints at him.

"Y'know, like a gift? Maybe a bribe but I'm trying to think of it on more charitable terms." It's clear she isn't swayed. Good thing he didn't expect it to be that easy. "We didn't have the most amazing introduction to each other, so I thought I'd give it another shot."

Quiet falls over them. The same unnerving silence from last time, with Aster staring at him with unblinking eyes and Dante resisting the urge to squirm under her gaze. No wonder Vergil kept coming around - she's right on his level. He doesn't quite believe she's human. No person should be able to hold a scowl for that long.

"I don't... why do you even care?"

"Uh, thought it was obvious." Judging by the way her head tilts, it is not. "You two are kinda my only family now. Nero's my nephew and you're his mom and I just want to help. And if you still hate me, then I'll pound sand. But you can keep all've this."

At this point her eyes have fallen shut and the tense square of her shoulders relaxed. She closes the book in her lap and stands. Dante braces himself for the worst. She's going to try to kill him again or tell him to get lost or both. Either option would hurt in their own special way. Aster opens her eyes to stare at the baby sprawled out and asleep in his cradle, unaware of any tension between them. He watches her mouth open, close, open again in abandoned attempts at sentences before she settles on:

"Bring the bags upstairs." She bends down and very carefully slides her hands beneath Nero. He makes a small whine at having his nap disturbed as she lifts him up to rest on her shoulder. "Did you bring coffee?"

"Uh... Y-" A pause and he tilts a bag around to double-check. "Yes."

"All right then. I'll... make us some coffee and we can talk."

"Wh-seriously?" She doesn't respond. Aster walks by him to shut her door, flip the sign to read "closed," and then starts up the stairs. Dante finally lets himself heave a sigh of relief and follows.

The second floor living room continues to be cluttered with books but now with the addition of baby toys scattered across the floor. There are zones of empty space here and there, spots cleared out for Nero to squirm around in with nothing breakable within arm's reach. He steps over a pallet of blankets with a few stuffed animals sprawled across it on his way into the kitchen, which is only slightly better in terms of mess. Less books (though still a few), more dishes in the sink and unopened mail left to pile up on a counter.

"Just put the food on the table. I'll put them away."

"I don't mind-"

"I have a system. You ..." Aster hesitates and looks at Nero. It occurs to both of them that he's been awake and peering at Dante this whole time. "...I guess you get to hold him."

"Uh-"

Too late to say no. She's already passing the boy off to him and then adjusting Dante's hands when he does it wrong. He sits in a chair at the table with Nero in his lap; she gets to unpacking everything from the brown paper bags. It feels a bit like she's using the opportunity to judge what he bought so it was absolutely a good idea to get outside help. Meanwhile he settles back and turns his attention to his nephew. The boy's eyes are the same bright, luminous blue as him and his twin. He's a perfect copy of the baby pictures that used to dot the wall of their childhood home. The thought makes Dante ache in a way he didn't expect. A tiny hand reaches out in search of something to latch onto and coos when Dante extends a thumb for him. His delicate fingers look so tiny and pale compared to his own calloused hands.

"Heh. You're a tiny mite, huh?" he mutters, more to himself than anyone. Nero responds with a broad smile and a squeal of laughter. "Yeah, I think it's funny too."

Aster's own laugh is so quiet that he almost doesn't hear it. His attention shifts from Nero to the boy's mother. She's got her back to him, intently busying her hands, first with the coffee maker and then with washing out a pair of mugs. The coffee starts dripping down into the pot. Aster stays quiet. She unpacks the last of the groceries, slotting them away in cabinets or into the fridge. Then she stops to actually look at the jar in her hands.

"Did you buy me the stuff to make pizza?"

Okay, maybe not _everything_ was Lady or Eryn's idea.

"I didn't see a place get any delivered! Do you people not have pizza on this island?" She looks over at him with her mouth half-open in dumbfounded confusion. He takes the opportunity to wave Nero's tiny hand at her. "There's a premade crust in there too. I can make it if you want."

God help him, she actually smiles. It's one of complete disbelief but he'll take it.

"No, no. I-" She shakes her head and goes to hunt for a pan. "I'll do it." And she keeps smiling wryly to herself as she starts putting everything together. It's a nice smile. Kind of quiet and restrained, but softer than he expected for someone who's been nothing but stern until now. "You put him in his high chair. I don't have to show you how to do that, right?"

"Gimme a break. I think this is the first baby I've ever held in my life." And no, he doesn't require instructions. He just needs his nephew to stop squirming and put his legs where they need to go. "C'mon, kiddo, work with me here." Once he has Nero seated, the boy immediately slaps his hands on the wooden tabletop and bounces in place.

"Give him some of this," Aster says and passes him the remainders of the cheese. "Just put it on the top, he likes to fling it everywhere."

"No pizza for him?"

"He doesn't even have teeth." He's glad someone knows what they're doing. Across from him, Aster steps back to survey their dinner. She tilts her head in thought before turning to open the fridge. Dante watches her root around and emerge with one jar of jalapeños and one jar of black olives with an almost triumphant look on her face.

"Ghk-" He can't stop himself from making a noise of disgust. Aster turns her head toward him with eyebrows raised.

"Really? I'm cooking for you."

"I mean- you know, it's fine."

"...ugh. Which one do you not like."

"The olives." He answers a little too quickly to be cool but he does genuinely hate the little bastards. Aster cocks her mouth to the side and rolls her eyes toward the ceiling.

"Fine. Half and half then."

Coffee and pizza are weird, conflicting smells but it isn't terrible either. Soon both are starting to fill the townhouse and Aster, for the first time ever, pulls up a chair and sits herself directly across from Dante. She keeps her attentions on Nero, making sure he actually eats the cheese in front of him instead of tossing it onto the floor, but she doesn't outright ignore Dante either. He sucks in a breath and sinks backward.

"So... can I start asking you questions now?"

"Depends on the question."

"Did you know what Vergil was planning?"

"Mmh. Cutting right to it, huh." Dante shrugs in response. He hopes the question doesn't get him kicked out but it's been on his mind. He doesn't know what to make of the woman in front of him. She seems mostly normal - an overworked mom who's barely out of her teens with too much on her plate. And yet Vergil was here and something had to have brought him to her doorstep. Aster hums thoughtfully, reaching up to rub a crumb of cheese off her son's pudgy cheek.  
  
"The best way to explain it is that it was kind of _our_ plan."

"...what?"

"Well, I wasn't ever going to be part of the action, so I guess it was mostly his. I don't like fighting." Nero giggles in total obliviousness. It coaxes an affectionate grin across Aster's lips. "But he asked me about the tower and I told him what I knew. After that, he kept coming around to request I do detail work. Translating ancient books, deciphering where the old seals were... That was all me." Her voice is so calm, so casual that Dante wonders if she understood what he asked.

His mouth twitches. "You-" She leans back in her chair to check the oven. "Did you know what would happen?"

"Of course I did. Opening the demon world, Sparda's power... We must have talked about it a dozen times." When she turns back to face him, Aster crosses one leg over her knee and rests her hands on top of it. "What can I say? I was curious."

"Curious."

"What do you think all of those notebooks out in the living room are for, Dante? I'm not writing a novel or asking Dear Prudence for advice. I'm a scholar and the demon world is my subject. The shop barely makes money. It's just a place to sell the weird trinkets I pick up in my work. People pay me to translate things and solve their mysteries. Along the way, I get to know what they know." One hand comes up to calmly sweep her hair behind one ear. "I wanted to see what would happen. That's all."

"You didn't care that-"

"Did you?"

The timer goes off. Aster pushes herself out of her chair to go hunt down a pot holder, leaving Dante stunned while his nephew happily plays with his food. He hates that she's right. Vergil must have told her more about him than he expected. He _didn't_ care about the tower, he cared that his asshole brother was at the top waiting for him. He cared that there were demons to kill for his own amusement inside Temen-ni-gru.

He was curious about Vergil's plan.

Aster drops the pan on the stovetop to let it cool. She stays there, caught suddenly in a thought or a memory. He can't tell which. She's staring off into the middle distance, out the sliding door that leads to her balcony and overlooks Fortuna. Her mouth is tight. Her hands wring each other and the way she laughs suddenly is more bitter than gentle.

"But I didn't think I'd lose him. I guess I trusted in his power too much, huh?"

"If you want an apology-"

"Please. I know the score." She walks over to the coffee maker, picking up the two mugs she washed as she goes, and fills both. One is white with gold stars painted all over it. The other is branded for a seasonal haunted house on the mainland and dated for last year. He grins despite himself and picks that one up. "He'd be furious if you apologized for winning."

God, she knew Vergil better than he realized.

"I probably sound like some kind of monster. Willing to open the gate to hell to satisfy my intellectual curiosity isn't exactly a great look," she hums, laying a plate with a few slices of pizza on it in front of him. He doesn't hesitate to snatch one up - he hasn't eaten since this morning, he realizes - and stuffs half of it into his mouth. Next to him, Nero makes eager grabby hands and a high pitched whine. Aster pulls a piece of cheese off her own and hands it to him.

"It's not gonna win you Mom of the Year, I'll tell ya that much," he replies after swallowing. The corner of her mouth quirks barely upward. "Anyways, I wouldn't say monster. You got one right here and he's pretty cute." He thumbs over to Nero, who seems to know that he's being talked about because he looks up with a mouth stuffed with mozzarella.

"Oh, don't eat all of it at once!" Aster immediately scolds and sets to wrangling half of it out with a grimace on her face. "Little monster is right..."

"You got your work cut out for you. Me and Vergil were, you know, nightmares. I think it comes with the whole half-devil thing."

"Is that so? Demon blood..." Finally she's able to eat for herself instead of making sure the kid is. She doesn't quite scarf it down as voraciously. Every so often he has to remind himself that not everyone is a horrible, food-inhaling goblin like himself and Lady. She looks lost in thought while she eats with her chin in one palm. "I didn't think about that."

It's a long shot, because Dante feels like he's overstayed his welcome, but he's a man of bold and sometimes stupid action and so he mentions in the most casual tone he can conjure: "Guess I ought to come around more often. Give you some pointers."

He expects a stake of magic hair to ram through his jugular. If she's kind, she'll throw him out into the alley, but the real best case scenario is that he wakes up in the ocean with a block around his ankle. But no. Aster takes another slow bite of her pizza, slides her eyes over to look at him, and shrugs.

"You better bring food next time too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know where Devil May Cry takes place which means I can make my own American-European hybrid and no one can stop me.


	3. Journals 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something different this time.

_Oct. 18, 19X1_  
Mme. Coutier's puzzle box continues to confound. None of the usual methods have produced results. It cannot be dismantled nor can it be wound back to a previous state. (Shouldn't have tried that. Whole study smells like sulfur. Slept on the couch last night after it drifted into my room.) The notes to decrypt the locking mechanism are written in coded Old Arcane. I tried Vigenère, Beaufort, Polybius, and a half dozen other ciphers. I even broke out the Reihenschieber machine. All gibberish. I need more information. Perhaps at the estate? I must call the grandson in the morning. If he really wants to know what's inside grandma's treasure box, he'll happily pay my way across the continent. I need a week or two away from Fortuna.

 _Oct. 20, 19X1_  
Phantasmagorama was incredible this year. I went through the whole attraction three times just to take in every detail. They changed the outdoor section to resemble a rural Spanish village and added a chainsaw murderer that follows people around. The burlap sack mask was an especially creepy detail. Everyone in my group seemed genuinely scared by it. Though I wish people would stop bringing their children. Seems like the kind of thing that would scar a ten year old for life. One little girl hung onto my skirt the whole time because I "didn't seem that scared." (Very cute. Thought I owned the witch's cabin in the tour, however. Shouldn't have worn so much black for once.)

Overall, better than last year and worth the long trip to the mainland. Bought a coffee mug.

 _Oct. 25, 19X1_  
The estate trip went well. Mme. Coutier had a workshop hidden beneath her servant housing. It was easy to find once I actually saw the place with my own eyes. There's a Minor Hellgate on the property, still sealed up after so long. Not by Sparda, his are much cleaner and more complex. Probably a local mystic in the aftermath of the rebellion. It'll hold out for another couple centuries but some chthonic energies seep through. It makes for an excellent place to practice the old magick and craft an enchanted puzzle box. She kept her notebooks down there too. Hopefully I'll be able to use them to solve the lock. As a bonus, her idiot grandson says I can keep them once I'm done. He just wants whatever is inside. Of course he has no idea how valuable a witch's notebook is but his loss is my gain. I'll append my travel notes later. So tired right now - I hate planes.

 _Oct. 26, 19X1_  
Strange new client today. He came in asking for my mother but didn't seem bothered when I told him she was dead and that I was her successor. Instead he asked if I knew anything about the Temen-ni-gru. He says Arkham sent him but he doesn't look the type to be taken in by that sycophant. There's a sharpness in his eyes like the edge of a blade. My age, I think, but colder than any eighteen year old boy I've ever encountered on this island. However he's completely lacking in charm. When I told him to come back tomorrow, he became agitated. There's nothing I can do about that. I've heard the name before. It's a tower. One that concerns Sparda himself but that's the extent of my knowledge. The Order's archives are bound to have further data about it. I'll talk to Father Raoul and see if he can get me and my new client access in the morning. There's something so strange about him but I can't place what.

 _Oct. 27, 19X1_  
Found exactly what I needed. Father Raoul will dummy the inventory for a few months so I can keep it without issue. He's getting expensive to pay off though. I'm not fond of covering the gambling debts he accrues at the harbor district. But he was strangely awestruck by my client. Perhaps the hair? Elderly members of the Order are permitted to have silver hair, like Sparda, but no one else. Age, it seems, brings them close to their God. It must be transgressive to him. Perhaps the old man was just ogling him. He's very beautiful. Hah.

He seems annoyed by my journaling. Judging by the sword he totes everywhere, I'd wager he's moreso a man of action than learning.

Addendum - Archives were VERY useful. Struck gold in the records kept by one of Sparda's attendants when he was lord of the island. It seems the squire had a habit of reading his liege's missives and making copies. The dialect is dated - nearly two hundred years old - but I can parse it well enough. I'll report back. I need to make a pot of coffee for myself and... whoever this man is.

Addendum 2 - I had no idea about the true nature of Temen-ni-gru. I thought it was a place. A temple or a city lost to the rebellion. And in a way it IS a place but not one on this plane. It's a prison. A massive prison, a gate to the underworld, and the final resting place of the Dark Knight Sparda's true power. Sealed away between the realms, waiting for the right person to come along and pluck it and its inhabitants free from limbo.

He wants to raise it. This strange man, this person who still hasn't deigned to give me his name, is asking me how he could raise this tower. Bring it here, to the human world. It would take months. Maybe years. I have no idea where to begin. There are so many pieces involved. Broken incantations, seals scattered to the four winds, locations forgotten or hidden in ancient riddles. I've never been given a project of this scope. It's the sort of thing my mother would involve herself in. It _was_  the sort of thing my mother involved herself in. I wonder if this is her revenge from beyond the grave. I can practically hear her saying, "See, you stupid girl? This is what you get for what you did to me. You're out of your depth."

I told him I'd do it. He seemed surprised. This is my chance to see the Underworld with my eyes, to see the war she fought and come out of it stronger and better than she ever was. So I'll help him with whatever he needs, so long as he handles the field work. I guess that makes us partners.

His name is Vergil.

\--

 _Nov. 30, 19X1_  
This project has eaten my life. It's almost as if I saw this coming but it's hard to mind when things are so interesting. The only problem is that I constantly forget to keep notes. I'm half tempted to make Vergil act as my scribe whenever he's here. If he's going to glower while he waits for answers, the least he could do is make himself useful. Did I mention that in yesterday's notes? No, I guess not. I've spent the majority of the last four weeks inside the Order's archives, cataloging as much as I can. I need sleep. Back on topic- my benefactor has come back around after a month to pester me for results. He's lucky I'm feeling charitable. Right now he's drinking my tea while I get everything in order.

Things I know:  
1\. The location of three out of six seals.  
2\. How to actually gain access to one of those three.  
(It _should_  work. The squire's notes say that it requires a "key that is not a key, a door that is not a door." Vergil claims his sword can function as both and that he has the blood bond required to pass through the threshold. Must remember to append translation notes. _Do it tonight!)_  
3\. A general approximation of what is inside.

Things I don't know:  
Everything else.

So it's going well, I think. At least I have somewhere to send him. I'm hoping that whatever is in the one seal he can gain access to will provide me clues to the rest of this grand puzzle. I'm thinking of sending him with his own notebook, if he has the patience for that kind of thing.

Addendum- Suggested it. Earned me a dirty look but he took it anyways. A good start. He's leaving out first thing in the morning. I'm going to finally sleep. It's gone past 2 A.M., I haven't slept right in a month, and there's nothing else I can do at the moment. Told Vergil he's welcome to my couch if he doesn't want to spend money on Fortuna's overpriced hotels. (I doubt he'd ever be caught dead in a hostel.) Whatever he decides to do, I'm sleeping.

 _Dec. 1, 19X1_  
Vergil smokes. Didn't expect that.

Caught him in the act when I went to make coffee. It's a miracle he didn't have that sword of his in arm's reach or he'd have lopped my head off before I finished saying "good morning." So I suppose he used the couch I offered up. Or maybe he never slept? Whichever it is, he was on the balcony attached to the kitchen and he was smoking. Not that it bothers me - so long as he keeps it outside, he could inhale the whole pack for all I care - but he seemed abashed that someone saw. I guess it does put a crack in the facade of someone who's always in control. Told him that his secret was safe with me. He must have liked that, considering he thanked me when I brought him coffee.

What a strange man. He's gone now, took the first boat off the island, and I've still got so much more work to do. The Order has translation requests, that Coutier idiot has another artifact he wants appraised, and the house is a disaster. Instead I'm just sitting out here on the balcony trying to puzzle him out. Any question about his motivations or desires is dodged with a glare. Wrangling even a name out of him took an oath to help end the world, more or less. Can't imagine what it would take to get his story. He's working with Arkham, so he's a more patient soul than I'll ever be. Therefore waiting and hoping he'll give me some kind of clue is out of the question.

Then there's the mystery of his sword - a Devil Arm, though I don't know the name - and his "blood bond." Mother told me Sparda had children but I assumed they died with their own mother. It's possible they survived. If so, then why do this? Why dismantle his own father's efforts to save the world?

No.

No, I suppose I understand the inclination. He's impossible to read but that's desire I understand too well. It's why I'm doing this at all. Something was sealed away from us and I want to see it with my own eyes. I want to know what it's like. So maybe he isn't so incomprehensible.

It's a nice morning out. Tomorrow I'll get to work on everything on the to-do list. Right now, I think I'll just wait. The smoke from those cigarettes is still in the air. It smells kind of nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't wait for DMC5 to come out and nuke all of this fun characterization for Nero's mom. Be gentle, Itsuno-san.


	4. Camera Obscura

In the year-and-change that Dante had been making semi-regular trips to Fortuna, he had learned a few new and useful things. For example, the Harbor District was also called the Secular District - a small handful of blocks connected to the port that Fortuna's many "outsiders" called home. The Order's knights had few patrols in the area and none of the locals within the district were required to adhere to the Church's strict dress codes. That meant every dive bar and cheap hostel for broke tourists was in the Harbor District, while luxury hotels and restaurants lived further in, beside the Opera House. This confluence of lax laws and plenty of places to get drunk in a small area led to that square of the city turning into a party town every summer. At 2PM on a Sunday, he can still hear the distinct sound of thundering music a few blocks away.

"Honestly," Aster grouses as she adjusts Nero on her hip. When she can't seem to situate him and the bag on her shoulder, Dante takes his nephew to lighten her load. "How do they keep this up? I'm getting tired thinking about it."

"Easy there, Red. You're starting to sound like a gramma, not a mom," he chuckles in response.

"A Gramma?" Nero parrots and Dante can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He doesn't have to look to know that she's giving him the evil eye. It doesn't last long. Nero switches his attention from his uncle to his mother with a fist half-shoved in his mouth. Then both weedy little arms extend toward Aster, coupled with an insistent whine.

"Ah, seriously? Still?" Dante can't help but pout as he passes the boy to her. Aster breaks into a soft smile and brushes the tip of her finger along his nose, earning her a giggle in response. Dante decides to help instead by taking the diaper bag she's been fussing with. At least she has good taste in baby accoutrement - it's fashionably black with gold fasteners, cool enough for Dante to carry without a second thought. "C'mon, buddy, you don't want your cool Uncle Dante to carry you?"

Nero shakes his head so those pretty waves of silver ruffle around his face. His mother can't hide the amusement on her own expression. "That's what you get for never coming around," she chides.

"I come around!"

"Once every couple of months hardly counts."

"Erh... work's been hell...?" he mutters in response. He was hoping she wouldn't bring that up - he even brought another bribe of food to keep her in good spirits. It's not a lie either. Work had finally picked up. He'd gotten a better car, started accepting jobs outside of town now that he could reach them reliably, and word had spread. It was enough for the lights to stay on and his bills to Lady and the bar to stay paid but it had the side effect of eating his weekends. He hadn't been to Fortuna in almost two months. "C'mon, I already apologized!"

"Toddlers don't have concepts of months or apologies, Dante," Aster deadpans and takes her son's tiny fist to shake at him. "Say 'my long term memory is limited at twenty months, Uncle Dante!'"

"Is limined, Unc'a Dante!" is what Nero manages but he does point a stern finger his way.

"Now who's telling him stuff he doesn't understand?" He turns to walk backwards as Aster trails behind him. "Are you gonna keep guilt tripping me or are we gonna go? I thought this market thing was a big deal."

"It is, and it's not going anywhere for the next two days. Gives me plenty of time to hound you."

Oh, he has missed her. Lady gives him almost as much lip but she's got a breaking point where his comebacks turn annoying and she leaves. Usually after shooting at him. Aster never seems to tire of it, so he never has to stop. A grin cracks across his mouth and he jams both of his hands into his pants pockets. (The summer heat in Fortuna is his breaking point and his coat remains hanging on a hook at her place. He'd go shirtless if Aster would let him.) They exchange barbs as they walk along the bustling streets; Nero occasionally interjecting with half-formed words and gestures.

The crowds expand as they get closer to the main plaza at the center of the district. There's more than a few people in hoods alongside the mainland tourists; a few of those mismatched groups are even taking pictures together. All of them are making their way toward three dozen-or-so white tents set up in the center of the square where an equal number of vendors of varying esotericity have set up tables. At a cursory glance, he can see a booth stocked with refurbished neoclassical furniture next to a table selling innocuous handmade soaps next to another selling exclusively bleached bones of varying creatures. Dante steals a glance at his not-sister-in-law and watches that magic hair of hers fluff ever so slightly outwards in anticipation.

"I missed this last year," she explains in an attempt to recoup her grace. Dante keeps smirking. "Wipe that look off your face or I'm going to make you pay for everything!"

She's always reminding him why Vergil kept coming around.

"All right, all right, I'm done mugging at you. Lead the way, ma'am."

And she does. Wandering from booth to booth, striking up friendly conversations with most of the vendors as they go. Dante is content to hang back and watch while Vergil sprouts into his mind the way a weed grows through a crack in the pavement. They haven't talked much about him in the past few months. He tried once and hated himself for it as soon as he saw any happiness on Aster's face die. So his brother became an unmentionable. Funny that, considering it's what brought him to Fortuna in the first place. Priorities shifted. Now he wants to keep seeing Aster and Nero more than he wants to know about Vergil. So he pushed his twin out of his mind, yet he always returns, an unwanted and unwelcome intrusion into happier moments. He sees Aster talking and socializing with a curious baby on her hip and is somehow still so alone. Her eyes will lift to skim the crowd when she thinks he isn't paying attention, only to fall with disappointment tight on the corner of her mouth. Sometimes Nero will tug on a tendril of burgundy hair to draw her gaze to him. She'll smile but it's so sad that it makes him ache and grows his resentment toward Vergil even deeper. He wonders why anyone would leave. What could possibly compel his brother to abandon such sweetness?

Yet he leaves every Sunday afternoon, doesn't he? Chasing more exciting things than the family he wanted even as he misses them on Monday morning. In that way, he's as bad as his twin. Maybe he's worse. Vergil only left once and Dante is always leaving and can never say for sure when he'll be back. And who was too slow to grab his falling twin?

"Oh, I need it," Aster's voice chimes in and snaps Dante into the real world. She's holding an iron. Not an iron like a gun but an iron like the thing you use to smooth out a blouse. Both he and Nero tilt their heads in confusion as though they're a confused pair of dogs.

"Sorry, I was zoning out. Why?"

"Pay attention," Aster replies and brandishes the appliance at him the way he'd wield Rebellion. Dante leans away from it on instinct. "It's haunted."

"Cursed!" corrects the vendor behind the table, a little old man with tiny round spectacles and a pleased grin. He bobbles pleasantly on his stool. "It's cursed, young man. With the anger of a maid scorned, it leaves burns that resemble hideous demon faces with only the slightest of touches."

"So I might get a burn that looks like you." Nero squeals with laughter at that. He doesn't appreciate that she's training the baby to recognize him being roasted.

"You are not buying a cursed clothes iron. What are you even going to do with it? I've literally never seen you do laundry." And then he pauses and rethinks what he said. "Also it burns clothes? It does that no matter what?" he asks the old man, who wobbles in the affirmative. "So it's useless."

"It's an artifact. I can put it in the shop next to the snow globe."

"Is it cursed too?"

"No, that one is actually haunted." She says it so matter-of-factly that he can't tell if she buys into what she's saying or not. So he squints at her in lieu of saying anything. At least she knows she's being judged because her expression slowly turns petulant. "I'm sure you own plenty of stupid trinkets."

"No, I have posters of half-naked girls and weapons. Both of which are still more functional than a 'cursed' clothes iron from..." He snatches it away from Aster before she can react and flips it over. He squints harder. "...Six years ago." He drops it onto the table hard enough to make it and everything around it rattle. He can feel the Evil Eye boring into his skull and he makes a point to ignore it. "C'mon, I'm sure there's better spooky crap around here." Aster opens her mouth to retort.

"Goodness, you've gotten so chatty since I saw you last!" Both freeze mid-argument to look stonefaced at the old man. He chuckles and sets to reorganizing the knickknacks that Dante set askew, unaware of the spanner he tossed into their machine. "I guess children do change a man but I don't think I'd ever heard you speak."

"Oh, that's-" Aster fumbles inelegantly on her words. Her brow creases and her hold on Nero grows tighter. "He's not- This is his brother," she finally blurts out when Dante can't. The old man looks up to study him closer then starts nodding as he absorbs in the details.

"I see, I see. Identical twins then? Rare, that," he muses aloud and picks up a fallen stone figure that toppled forward. He hums in thought and turns his head up to look at the trio. "Well, it's good to meet you, I suppose." Dante doesn't appreciate the passive aggressive tone in that statement but he'll deal. "This is my last bazaar so I'm glad to see you could make it, my dear," he says to Aster.

"Why's that? Don't tell me you're retiring."

"Ah, no no." He pulls off his glasses to clean them with the hem of his shirt. "Seems the Order is going to start cracking down on what we can and cannot bring to the city. Too much of a hassle for my age. I think I'll stick to the mainland. You should come see me in Porto Di Voglia in December!" With a bit of codgerly fussing, he produces a flier from inside a bag at his side and Nero is quick to grab it and start scrunching it up between his palms. The old man doesn't seem bothered.

Eventually, after more small talk, Aster says her goodbyes, accepts a friendly kiss to her knuckles, and leaves without her "cursed" iron. She walks slower now, in step with Dante, her lips pursed and her eyes distant in thought. When they do stop to survey everything on sale, she doesn't seem to genuinely absorb what she's looking at. Dante reaches out to take the half-torn paper out of Nero's hands, who immediately grouses at him in baby babble with a scowl covering his face. That's enough to get her attention.

"What's buggin' you, Red?"

"Stop calling me 'Red.' And... the Order usually minds their own business with regard to the Harbor District's goings-on. It sits a little weird with me, that's all."

"S'it bad?" A pair of girls in ankle length skirts and hoods walk by them, clutching armloads of books to their chest and giggling between themselves. Both double-take at Dante and his hair and squeal out high pitched giggles once his attention and grin turn their way. They scamper into the swaths of people surrounding them to hide their embarrassment. Sometimes he forgets the kind of Island they're on and then the reminder is always strong enough to give him whiplash.

"Not... bad," Aster finally answers. "Just concerning. It'd make business difficult if the Knights gave me trouble every time a client sent me something to decipher." Neither of them is given much time to worry. Nero starts squirming in Aster's arms- kicking his feet, wiggling around, stretching his arms downward.

"Wanna go doo-oown..."

"Really? Here? Right now?" She looks helplessly at Dante, who raises and drops his shoulders in a lackadaisical shrug. "Only for a little bit. And you have to stay _right_ next to me, understand? You're going to be in big trouble if you wander off." Her finger bops the tip of his nose. His nephew breaks into a half-smile and nods his head.

"I'll keep an eye on him too. Don't worry so much."

"Don'worry so much, mama!" Nero flings his fists into the air. It's enough to make Aster visibly tremble from how precious a gesture it is. She stoops down and helps the boy onto his feet, then grabs his little hand.

"But I'm gonna hold onto this, okay?"

"Okay!"

\--

By the time they leave, Nero's given up the ghost on walking. He's sprawled out on his uncle's back and halfway to sleeping after spending hours in the summer heat and sun. His little cheek is tucked against Dante's shoulder and sometimes he'll try to murmur out his own comment to their conversations. Most of the time it's gibberish. Dante keeps looking to make sure the little guy is there and okay and every single time he could burst at the sight of something so adorable. Beside him, Aster flips through one of the many, many, many books she bought at the bazaar with rapt interest. The only thing keeping her from walking off the sidewalk is Dante reaching out to tug on her sleeve to right her course.

"Eyes up, Red."

"I thought I said to stop calling me that?"

"But it suits you! Makes you sound dangerous." She scrunches up her nose. "Hey, I still remember you trying to stake me through the throat." As though it were listening, the braid over her shoulder lifts up to slap his hand away. "See?"

They round the corner into her alley and Aster stops in the middle of reproaching him. "Ah, damn, was that today?" Dante follows her gaze and notices a pair in white and gold sitting on her stoop. One is far smaller than the other. He starts to ask if they're trouble but Aster is already rushing to close the distance between them. So he's going to assume everything is fine and remind himself that his sword is inside the shop if it is not. "Loreto, I am so sorry!"

The larger figure in white rises to stand and bows forward with an arm pressed along his rib cage. He's an older man, in his late thirties maybe, with cropped brown hair and incredibly sharp features. One of those swords Order knights wield hangs from his hip but Aster seems unbothered by it. She just apologizes again. "It's fine, Aster." And he speaks with such poise that Dante feels like he should stand up straighter. "I forgot today was the bazaar. I should have suspected you'd be there. It seems your trip was fruitful?"

Next to him, the other fumbles to his feet as well, letting Dante see that it's a boy of similar hair color and sharp features. He straightens his shoulders out and folds his hands behind his back in an attempt to mimic what Dante assumes is his father. Both have their focus on Aster and so both look a little surprised when he saunters up to join the conversation. The boy does a double take at his hair but his father - Loreto? - just offers up a warmer expression and a greeting nod.

"This is someone new."

"Ah, this my..." Aster's words hesitate. "This is Nero's uncle."

"I see. It's nice to meet you then." Then he blinks in realization and half-turns to the boy. "Where are my manners? This is my son, Credo."

The boy gives a short nod as a greeting and doesn't say anything in an attempt to remain stern. It doesn't really work out on the face of a kid who can't be older than eleven. Out of the corner of his eye, Dante notices Aster rubbing her hand across her mouth, hiding a delighted smile, and he internally begs her to not embarrass the kid by calling him cute. Memories of his own mother doing that to him and Vergil spring to mind and it was _galling._  Even if he is a pretty cute kid.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Credo," Aster says in a strained tone. "Would the two of you want to come inside? I need to put my rugrat to bed but I can make some tea."

"No, no, we need to be returning home as well. I simply wanted to drop off what we discussed on the phone. Credo?" His son bends over to pick a leather satchel up off the ground. From inside, he produces a black leather-bound grimoire with bronze inlay and a sigil of interlocking diamond shapes at the center. It's locked in four places and a familiar dark energy radiates of it even in its neutral state. Aster gingerly takes it from Credo's hands and turns it over to survey every detail. "We found it during an excursion to the mainland. I've brought a copy of the mission report as well. None of the scribes can open it, so I suggested we call on you. You'll be paid the usual rate, of course."

"This is..." Aster murmurs as Dante leans over her shoulder to peek at the book. "...Very old." She runs her thumb along the sigil embossed into the cover. Neither father nor son are bothered, but Dante can feel the air resonate. Nero must have as well because he lifts his head to murmur his displeasure. "I'll have a look at it in the morning and get back to you?"

"That's fine." Again Loreto bows and his son mimics the movement, hand folded at his chest and everything. "Now I'd like to stay and visit, get to know your friend here-" Dante isn't terribly fond of the idea. "-But my wife wants us home at a normal hour for once so we need to depart."

"Mmh. Say hello to Stella for me." Briefly her eyes look his way and notice that Nero is awake with his chin propped on his uncle's shoulder. He's blinking to fight off going back to sleep, arms flopped around Dante's neck. "Say bye-bye to Mr. Loreto." All he manages is a feeble wave and then drops his head again. "Good enough."

The older man's lips pull into a fond smile. A large hand pats his own son's head and the boy makes a discontented grumbling noise. "May the Savior be with you three," he calls and leads his son away from the small townhouse and down the uneven streets.

It takes every ounce of Dante's willpower to not scowl. That hasn't stopped being weird. He spends so much time in the Harbor District, he tends to forget that 80% of the island's population worships his own father. Aster says no one knows who he and Nero are and he'd prefer to keep it that way. There's a nonzero chance things would get strange. He hasn't seen it with his own eyes but he's well aware of the statue of "The Savior" being constructed inside the city. The Order's devotion went well past understandable and into uncomfortable a long, long time ago.

"Come on in. I need to put Nero to bed."

The upper floors of the shop are as cluttered as they've always been. Everything is clean but nothing is in its place. Toys on the floor, laundry on a catch-all chair, dishes clean but still in the drying rack. He doesn't fault her for it, of course. Trying to raise a baby and work at the same time at 21 years old is the definition of "Sisyphus and the boulder."

"So who was that exactly?"

"Loreto is a Knight within the Order. He's my go-between. Kind of like your... What was his name? Morrison?" Dante nods as he follows her up the stairs to the third floor. "He's a little more laissez-faire about Order traditions. Most Harbor District residents like him; we tend to take our complaints about other guards to him and they usually get handled appropriately. And his wife, Stella, was my midwife."

"Huh."

"So don't worry." She looks at him with a slight grin. "They're good people. They're not going to bother me and Nero."

"Heh. Who says I was worrying?"

For as often as Dante comes around, he rarely ascends to the top level of the old rowhouse where Aster's bedroom and study lie. It's very much a space he knows he does not belong in but tonight she's willing to let him carry Nero. It's technically a single large room with the spaces separated by tall folding screens. However they don't do much to keep her work from spilling out into her bedroom. The night stand has books on it; the mirror above her dresser has sticky notes posted as reminders to get various tasks done. For all her poise, he's pretty sure the Devil May Cry is better organized than her house.

"D'you want me to put him in his crib?" Dante half-whispers. Aster slips beyond the screens to put the grimoire someplace safe and, presumably, away from curious toddlers.

"Put him in my bed. He sleeps like a rock, he won't fall out."

Nero doesn't have his own room. There isn't the space anywhere in the house for it so it's become a "cross that bridge when we get to it" problem. For now there's an armoire in the corner for his clothes and a crib beside it that rarely sees use as the boy prefers to sleep next to his mother. Dante inches himself to sit on the edge of Aster's bed and carefully moves his nephew from his back to lay the toddler down. He murmurs a protest, clutching resolutely at the collar of Dante's shirt, letting go only once his grip is pried free from the black fabric. The whining stops once his tiny frame settles into the down mattress and soft sheets.

"Sh'yeah, thought so," he mutters gently. He's tempted to lay down and do the same. Fortuna's summer heat is exhausting. The only thing stopping him is the potential to be booted out by Aster just as he fell asleep, so he contents himself to stay awake and sit in the comfortable silence. Nero is already out, small back rising and falling with every breath, feather-light hair hanging into his eyes before Dante reaches out to sweep it away. Nero's face is serene save for the barest twitch of his eyebrows from whatever is running through his mind as he dreams and Dante has to willfully ignore how much the kid resembles his brother - _specifically_ Vergil, not himself. He always looks kind of contemplative for a toddler and that doesn't change when he sleeps.

He purses his lips, tears his eyes away from the kid to focus on literally anything else. What his eyes fall on is the notebook on Aster's bedside table and the edge of something white sticking out from between its pages. It looks like a card but he's pretty sure it isn't a bookmark. Touching it is probably a bad idea but his curiosity is stronger than his sense of self preservation. Besides- considering he's never been able to grasp any of the research Aster has made him privy to, there's a high probability he won't understand it. So he leans over Nero, slips it out from between the journal's pages, and turns it over.

"Wh..."

Vergil's staring back at him. It's a photo from an instant film camera and his brother is in the center of the frame, sitting in the catch-all chair downstairs. The sun is setting behind him, casting everything in orange and pink light, making Aster's already cozy living room seem warmer and more lived in and Vergil is integrated into it. It's a space he's been in before and he's made himself comfortable - sunk into the cushions, typically rigid posture relaxed, chin in his palm and a book in his lap. He's even dressed like a regular person, just a button down and slacks, though Dante can see his blue coat hanging on a hook in the background. And he's smiling, however faint it may be. Whoever took the photo caught him in the middle of saying something and the corner of his mouth is quirked upward. There's nothing stern in his expression. It's not a smirk. He looks at ease.

It used to always be that way. He remembers the pictures from their house, the vacation and baby photos hanging on the wall or in frames on dad's desk. Why didn't he take any of those when he went back? Why just the one of mom? They've probably rotted away now so any proof that the two of them used to get along is just... gone.

"Dante."

The sound of his name almost startles him out of his skin. He whips his head around, looking right at Aster standing by the divider, and wave of burning hot guilt washes over his entire body. After all, he was going through her things, poking his nose where it doesn't belong. He expects her to get mad but she mostly looks tired. One hand rubs her upper arm and she crosses the room with deliberate steps.

"I had that picture on my mind the whole day," she begins. Her voice is painfully quiet and it's not to keep herself from waking Nero. Her weight, minuscule in comparison to his own, settles next to him on the bed. She reaches out and plucks the photo from his grasp so she can lift it up and study the image. Her mouth twitches outward - a smile that dies halfway through the attempt.

"The last time I went to the bazaar, I dragged him with me. It was the least he could do for getting me pregnant." Dante laughs because the idea is still too foreign to him. He can't fathom Vergil making a mistake like that. "He hated it. Of course he did. Too loud, too crowded. But out of nowhere, he offered to buy me something. I think he felt guilty about always being gone while I was stuck here, pregnant and tired and miserable in the middle of summer. He was always bringing me things."

Dante stays quiet. This is the most she's talked about him since they met and he doesn't dare say a word and break whatever mood she's in to let this happen. Aster seems at least a little aware of that too. She rests the photo on her lap and keeps her gaze cast downward to avoid his staring.

"The guy from earlier? The one who thought you were Vergil? He was selling an instant film camera and he said it was..." Her eyes dart to the side, suddenly sheepish, and Dante raises his eyebrows.

"Cursed?"

"Haunted, actually. That's what he said. The face of a mourning woman appears in the background of every picture it takes. And that sounded so charming to me. Something otherwordly that wasn't malevolent. It's kind of quaint, right?" She reaches up and tucks a long sliver of deep red hair behind her ear. "He thought it was ridiculous too. Grumbled about it the whole time he was paying."

That sounded like him when they were kids. Vergil would always take their games too seriously. He'd hurt his younger brother's feelings and he'd never directly apologize. Instead he'd make up for it in other ways - losing a second round of whatever they were playing, claiming he didn't want his dessert and Dante could have it. It was his own cloistered way to show he cared.

"It's a cute camera, kinda compact with the rainbow stripe logo on the front. I think it's up in the attic somewhere. But it's not haunted. I took pictures of the whole house and then myself and nothing ever showed up. So I tried a picture of him. Didn't get a ghost but I got..."

She runs her thumb over the surface of the picture, taking care to not leave prints on the gloss. Dante watches her in dumbfounded silence. It's almost more information than he knows how to process. Trying to fit this version of his brother into the same slot as the person Dante knew him as feels impossible. They're similar and yet incongruous.

"And... when we were out today, I thought... I don't know. It felt nice to have someone else around but I just kept thinking... Hoping..."

The spell cracks. Maybe she becomes aware of what she's saying but Aster lifts her head to look at him with a thin smile pulling across her lips. Guilt stabs deep into his stomach again. He should have stopped her sooner because he knows better than anyone that sometimes happy memories hurt more.

"You..."

She reaches out. One delicate hand touches his forehead as light as snowfall. Dante feels flustered warmth surge under his skin while his mind goes to places it shouldn't. There's no attraction to Aster herself, though she is beautiful, but moreso an ache for this kind of touch. It's been a long time since he's had genuine, affectionate contact from another person. Her fingers rake into his silver hair, pushing it to lay back against his scalp and out of his eyes.

Just like Vergil.

He finds himself holding his breath. Staring down at Aster, more aware of his distance from another person than he's been _since_ he lost his twin, and frozen in place. Eyes as gold as summer sunlight dart across his face - up to his eyes and down to his mouth, searching wordlessly for something that he can't help her find. He isn't sure what to say or do. Should he smile? Keep his expression neutral? Does he push her away? She's looking for his twin, not him, and that might hurt more if he didn't do the same thing in the mirror sometimes.

And then she laughs. It's weak, it's fragile, but it's still a laugh. She shoves his hair back into his eyes and playfully pushes his head away. Dante is happy to lean back on his palms, reveling in the space between them and her smile. It's forced but not fake. It's the kind of smile you put on when you don't know if you should laugh or cry.

"You don't look anything like him."

"Heh. Right? That's what I always said too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tagged this story as platonic and that's how it's gonna stay.


	5. Sticks and Stones

Glass skylights don't do much to break a fall, especially if you hit it with the force of a runaway semi-truck. Dante lays on the marble floor of some ritzy hotel lobby, staring at the ceiling he was just pitched through, watching shattered glass dangle precariously and wondering when it might fall. The rest of it is beneath him or stuck into his back and his collar bone is cracked where he fell shoulder first and there's blood everywhere. Six stories overhead, he can hear the screech of a demon - still pissed about the arms he removed, no doubt. There isn't much time before it sniffs him out.  
  
So the job was going great.  
  
"I am so ready for a vacation," he hisses as he drags himself to where Rebellion landed. He slams it into the ground, using it as a prop to get on his feet. The wounds from the glass are already starting to heal; he can feel his bones popping into place but that doesn't make any of it less uncomfortable. Blue eyes skim the lobby to check if there are any attendants he needs to scare off. All he sees are two people in uniforms already making a mad scramble for the emergency exit. The guests could do with a warning as well but he's making a mental note to lead the demon outside once it finds him.  
  
"You okay down there, Dante!?"  
  
"Yeah, I just wanted to complain to the front desk about some broken glass," he calls, looking up at where Lady's head has popped into the frame of the shattered skylight. A shard that was barely hanging on falls loose and Dante steps to avoid it landing right in his skull.  
  
"Nice to see your smart mouth still works." Again the demon shrieks like a banshee, loud and close enough this time to make his ears ring. Lady looks over her shoulder and shrugs Kalina Ann off her back. "Coming this way! I'm taking the fire escape, I'll meet you in the courtyard!"  
  
He lifts a thumbs up and his partner vanishes from view. The pain from his fall is fading now. There's an ache in his shoulder that will stick around for a few days but won't slow him. Eliminating the target shouldn't take too long either. It's rampaging because it's missing a half-dozen of its many, many limbs and one eye. So he rolls his arm to work some of the stiffness out, hoists Rebellion up, and saunters into the hall leading to the courtyard as something huge lands outside.  
  
"All right, time to put this job to bed."  
  
Gunfire is already filling the air as he boots open the exit. Lady scrambles across the manicured lawn, avoiding wide swipes from a score of sectioned arms belonging to a school bus sized demon that seems to be a grotesque mishmash of snake and centipede. She spots him and he grins at the dirty look that hits her face.  
  
"Help me out, idiot!"  
  
"But you're doing so well without me." In response, she yanks both of her submachine guns out of their holsters, pointing one at the demon and one at Dante. "Fine. But we're splitting this pot 50/50!" He bolts forward to join her, planting his feet to catch another swipe against his blade. Lady opens fire. Bullets pepper its hide and empty shell casings clatter like chimes at her feet.  
  
"The hell we are!" She yanks a grenade off her ammo belt, pulls the pin, and tosses it into the demon's open mouth as it starts to swing its other set of arms at Dante. "You owe me from last month. 70/30."  
  
The grenade detonates deep in its gut. A shudder vibrates within its entire frame. More screaming - though he can hardly fault it this time - and its tail lashes along the ground toward the pair of them. Both jump away, watching the attack carve a scar ten feet deep into the turf. The end of the appendage spasms, flesh splitting apart to reveal another snapping set of teeth.  
  
"70/30!? Are you insane?!" The tail-mouth lunges. Dante sidesteps the attack, swinging downward. Rebellion cleaves muscle and bone with ease, separating the tertiary mouth from its body and sending the demon into another fit of screaming, thrashing rage. As though it weren't already angry enough. Limbs flail; what's left of its tail swings, uprooting trees, pitching a bench into the side of the hotel. The pair of demon hunters rush to get out of its path while taking the occasional potshot at the beast. "You do know I have to pay my rent, right?!"  
  
"Yeah, I would love to have had a little extra money after paying _my_ rent. But I gave it to my idiot friend who wastes all his spare cash on pizza and ice cream and booze!" Lady hollers and ducks a trash can flying her way. Dante grinds his teeth. The demon he can handle but Lady is a battle he has yet to win. "60/40. Take it or leave it and you'll still owe me!"  
|  
"Fine!" He slides under another swipe of the demon's many arms and whirls around to face it, slamming the edge of Rebellion onto the ruined sidewalk to keep the beast's attention on himself. A smile pulls wide across his face despite his aching bones. "Then I get to bring it home. C'mon." He waves a hand toward himself and feels his nerves light up with excitement to see it takes the bait. Sore or not, this is his favorite part of the job.  
  
It doesn't hesitate to charge again. Multi-jointed legs skitter and spike new holes in the landscaping as it does. Dante stays rooted in place with Rebellion slung up onto his shoulder. These big, dumb, loud types make it too easy. They always go for whoever makes themselves the flashiest target and there's no one flashier than him.  
  
The creature dives at him but slams face first into the spot he used to occupy. Dante lands on its ridged back, rams his sword deep through its carapace. He grips the hilt tight and pulls. From head to toe, Dante cuts the demon open as he runs along its spine. The wound makes an awful squelching sound like wet paper tearing as he goes. To add insult to literal injury, he takes special care to lop the rest of its tail off. The final scream that splits the air makes the glass in the hotel windows shake and then crack. It lasts so long that he and Lady both cover their ears until it collapses in a heap and the courtyard is silent.  
  
"You're such a show off," Lady comments as she walks to him. She's smiling though. As she gets closer, he lifts a hand and she deigns to high-five him.  
  
"So... 60/40?"  
  
"Only 'cause you finished it off." Both of them survey the damage and Lady is the first to grimace. "How you feeling, by the way? That was a long damn way to fall." She nods at the building adjacent the hotel, specifically the roof twenty stories up that he was punted off. Dante wobbles his hand.  
  
"Had worse. Good thing I didn't land on my head."  
  
"Why? You don't have a brain to hurt."  
  
"OH!" He snaps his head to look at Lady with the usual deep frown. "And here I was gonna ask if you wanted to go to Bullseye after we got paid."  
  
"Didn't you _just_  say your rent was due?" And then her mismatched eyes go wide. "DAN-"  
  
He doesn't hear her say the rest of his name. Something slick and wet impacts his body, throws him backward, and pins him against the hotel's outer wall. White hot pain shoots along his chest and ribcage. It takes him a moment to understand that it's because something has speared into him. His gaze turns to look at his chest and stomach, focusing on the long, sharp teeth punctured through him. They're connected to putrid looking gums in a fleshy mouth embedded in the not-quite-dead demon's tongue. The mouth spasms, tightens, forces its fangs deeper inside and the pain is worse than he expected. The wounds themselves are burning. He can smell flesh - _his_  flesh - rotting as acid eats into it. His sword arm is caught between the mouth and his side, but the other is free and he starts flailing to try and pass Rebellion to a working hand. Lady shouts for him and there's gunfire but both sounds are distant. The sensation of being eaten from the inside is so intense that it's dulling everything else. He can't even focus to trigger.  
  
Gunfire rattles and the body the tongue is extending from jerks him around, dragging him against the wall. For a moment, the teeth inside him loosen and pull out in an attempt to reorient its grip on its prey while dealing with the other hunter. It's enough to let him move his pinned arm. He flicks his hand and tosses Rebellion, snatching it out of the air with the other. Everything's starting to go blurry but he can see well enough to swing a sword. He brings it down hard, severing the tongue, and drops to the ground as dead weight. He doesn't hear any shooting. The only thing he's 100% aware of are the teeth disintegrating as the main body finally dies.  
  
"Holy shit, Dante-" Lady rolls him over. There's a note of panic on her face that grows more pronounced when she looks at his chest. He does not dare follow suit. The smell alone is enough to make him feel sick. "Ohhhh my god. That is-" She shakes her head. "Are- are you okay? Do I need to call a doctor for once? Cause this, uh, looks pretty bad."  
  
"Nnngghh... I believe you..." he gurgles. "I'll be- ugh, god, that smells. You oughta leave me here." Lady laughs despite the situation, which makes him feel a little better for worrying her. "Look, just- no. No doctors. Hate doctors. Just- ngh- help me get to the shop and I'll- Iunno. Take a bath." Sitting up makes deeper, burning pain radiate across his torso and the only reason he doesn't fall again is because Lady keeps him upright.  
  
"So much for Bullseye, huh?" she says with a tense smile. Dante's chuckle comes out labored and turns into a groan as she helps him to his feet. Sirens are starting to wail in the distance.  
  
"Sh'yeah. Guess I'm takin' the next few days off."

 

\--

 

The note on Aster's door said to meet them at the park.  
  
So much for a sympathetic heart from his not-sister-in-law. Dante called her that morning, asked if she would be cool with him swinging by, and got a reluctant "yes." He can't blame her. It's been four months since he came around. He tells himself, as he walks through the ever-cramped Harbor District, that he's going to start limiting how many jobs he takes. Maybe pass a few to Lady so he can start making the trip regularly again. The plan was never to turn Aster's place into his "vacation home" though damn, it would easier to be consistent if she lived a little closer than halfway across the country.  
  
To make it worse, the acid on that demon's teeth had done a number on him. His first instinct, to try to wash it out as soon as he could, had been right but his healing still wasn't at full capacity. Every spot inside his torso seems to have a bruise or crack in it. How did regular people live like this? Walking around with injuries all the time? He's so used to being back in perfect fighting shape within an hour or two that he doesn't know how to handle this kind of constant soreness. The endless whining about his must have driven Lady crazy. She was jumping to send him off to Fortuna this morning. And now here he is, eaten up by demon's acid, making the long-ish walk to the park at the edge of the Harbor District.  
  
A least the trip is nice. If summer in Fortuna is misery, then fall is idyllic. The blistering heat, the sporadic midday downpours, the smothering humidity are replaced by cloudless blue skies and crisp breezes coming off the bay. What few trees that do grow in the castle town have turned deep orange and the wind blows their leaves along the cobblestone streets in swirling tornadoes. The party town has reverted back to its usual quiet off-season. The constant drone of distant music is replaced by the tinny notes of whatever's spinning on a record player inside a cafe or an apartment with an open window. It coalesces into a scene out of a postcard and the calm eases some of the ache in his ribcage. Some of it. He has to remind himself that there will be a bench at the park.  
  
Dante knows he's close by the sound of choral shrieks that accompany children playing. Always hard to tell when a kid is having fun or being mauled, but he's mostly sure this is the good kind of screaming. Around the corner there's a park that lies on the edge of the district. It's just a stretch of grass and trees, surrounded by a wrought iron fence, that takes up a block or two in the heart of a tightly packed city. There's the usual park trappings: a playground and swings and sandbox. Technically it sits halfway inside Order territory. That explains the few little ones in hoods among the group today. But sticking out even moreso is his nephew, with his cotton top hair and red bunny eared hoodie flopping behind him as he runs after a girl. He cracks a grin and walks (hobbles, to be honest) the rest of the way and slips through the open gate. His eyes skim across the park and fall on Aster, sitting on a bench with a book in her lap and her legs tucked beneath herself. She's talking to another woman dressed in standard Order-approved attire - long sleeves, skirt, and hooded cowl, though it sits relaxed around her shoulders instead covering her windswept ginger-brown hair. That woman notices him approaching before Aster does and her expression changes to one of mild horror.  
  
"Oh goodness."  
  
"Wha-" Aster looks over her shoulder, blinks when she realizes who it is, and then turns around completely once the information absorbs. "Oh, you look awful."  
  
"Hello to you too," he deadpans as he eases himself to sit next to Aster. She's already surveying him with greater concern while her friend (he assumes) peeks around her shoulder with curiosity all over her face. "Why're you surprised? I told you work was rough on the phone."  
  
"I can never tell if you're being serious or if you're whining," she replies. Dante scowls in response. "You ... tend to just walk it off." She says it in a hesitant way, hinting that the third party in their conversation isn't privy to his abilities.  
  
"It's complicated. I'll explain later." It's a lame way to shift the attention from his injuries and he knows it, so he follows it up with: "Who's your friend? I thought most people were scared you might lay a witch's curse on them."  
  
Aster rolls her eyes before turning friendlier attention to the woman behind her. "He's brought jokes today. Stella, this is the absentee uncle I was complaining about." His scowl intensifies but where he's expecting judgement or a scolding, the woman breaks into a wide smile and claps her hands in front of her chest.  
  
"You're Dante then? Aster's told me so much about you! And never you mind what she says, it's all been good. How helpful you've been, how nice it is for Nero to have fam-"  
  
"Okay! He gets it!" Aster flusters as her braided hair fluffs outward in an involuntary reflection of her mood. She's also taking special care to not look back at him and his smug grin. He's already filing those compliments away in his brain to use when he needs them. And Stella's own expression radiates gentle amusement at the younger woman's expense. It's then that he realizes he's heard the name before and, as though she read his mind, Aster says in a more sulky tone: "This is Captain Loreto's wife."  
  
He's talked to Loreto a few times since their first introduction over a year ago. The grimoire he entrusted to Aster ended up being somewhat of a Herculean task. It was written in different languages and codes, many she knew but some of the oldest and most esoteric she didn't. He never grasped the breadth and depth of her knowledge of the arcane until this project fell into her lap. Sometimes she’d worked while he looked after Nero and he'd be subjected to endless rants about its complexity. Months later and the full text remained untranslated. Instead she'd just give Loreto thick sheaves of paper consisting of her current progress and he would pay her in turn. Sometimes he'd bring his son along the interaction, though the boy continued to be far too serious. They'd both mention Stella and, sometimes, Credo's little sister.  
  
"Nice to finally meet ya. Sorry about the whole..." He gestures to his everything. "Rough night on the job. So is one of these ragamuffins your-ow!" Aster smacks his arm.  
  
Stella laughs - light and candid, unrestrained in a way that Aster's has never been. It's a sound that might make him feel nostalgic if he didn't shove away the memory it conjured up. He keeps his attention on the two women until they both nod at the gaggle of kids playing, toward Nero and the girl he was chasing before. Now both are climbing the toddler-sized set of playground equipment. He sees the resemblance instantly - same peach-warm complexion and gingery hair.  
  
"Her name's Kyrie."  
  
As if she can tell when someone's talking about her, Kyrie turns her attention from Nero to the trio on the bench and waves to her mother, who returns it just as enthusiastically. Then the girl goes back to trying to coax Nero down the bunny hill of a slide so she can have her turn. He isn't so eager. Dante sinks back on the bench to watch the pair of them in the quiet when his conversation lulls.  
  
Nero is at once too small and somehow growing too fast. Nothing else in Fortuna seems to have changed as much as he has. The Captain and his two idiot sons were still around to bring him here, the guards at the port gave him the cold shoulder, and the girl at the grocery tried to sell him another souvenir cap. Everything is functionally the same. Not even the cult deifying his father gets to him anymore. Most of them seem harmless and the zealots who Dante would inevitably clash with don't come to the "Heretic District." They always stay in their cloistered communities away from the port.  
  
But his nephew talks, walks, and runs now. Three-going-on-four and making friends and currently trying to brave a slide that's not even a yard off the ground. He's changing over months, not years. Dante's missed the last four and in a span of time that feels like a blur of just a few weekends, Nero's grown up more. He's gotten chattier, wanting to talk where before he was content to hide behind Aster's skirts. Transitioning from a goblin who likes to shout and scream for reasons good and bad into someone resembling a tiny human with a personality all his own and a funny scowl that turns bewildered as Kyrie gives up and shoves him down the slide.  
  
"Oh! Kyrie! Don't push!" Stella calls as soon as it happens, but both he and Aster break into stifled laughing. Nero isn't hurt. He mostly looks confused to be at the bottom of the slide. A moment later, Kyrie bumps into his back when she takes the same trip. A slow smile dawns across his nephew's mouth and his tiny hand takes hold of hers to pull his friend to go again.  
  
Each trip on the slide gets the pair more excited and more eager to repeat it. So one of them tripping is almost inevitable but when Nero stumbles and falls, Aster hurries to her feet. The unhappy wail that goes up through the park only quickens her pace to close the distance between them. It's not a panicky rush but he can see the nervous tension along her shoulders. Dante attributes it to her usual worrying - she’s fussier than she realizes. He doesn’t think anything of it but gets up to follow after her regardless. Nero keeps crying when his mother reaches him while Kyrie flusters helplessly at his side.  
  
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he hears Aster coo once he’s within earshot. “No tears. We said we’re gonna walk off scuffs, remember?” She kneels onto the grass and scrubs tears off her son’s cheek with a thumb. The crying tapers into pitiful whimpers and his head bobbles up and down in a nod. “There we go. You’re my brave little man, aren’t you?”   
  
“Y-yeah…”   
  
There’s a harsh looking scrape running up Nero’s shin, bleeding enough to run down and stain the top hem of his nephew’s sock. He stoops low beside Aster to pat his big hand onto the boy’s head. Bleary eyes close and a weak giggle slips out of his lips as Dante musses up feather-light hair.   
  
“Don’t you worry. You’ll be fine in just a tic.”   
  
Except he isn’t. A wound that should have zipped shut in seconds stays open. More blood seeps into that little blue sock. Next to him, Aster digs in her purse until she finds a pack of tissues and a bandaid big enough to cover the whole scrape. It hasn’t healed. As Aster cleans and patches the wound up, it never does. Specs of blood even blot the inside of the bandage, showing faintly through the latex.   
  
Something weird rises up in Dante. The nervous itch of anxiety spreading through his stomach and up his spine and the only reason he resists the urge to scratch at it is because it would hurt the slow-healing holes punched into his torso.   
  
He’s healing.   
  
His nephew isn’t.   
  
“All better?” Aster’s voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. Nero smiles with his bright blue eyes puffy from crying and she bends over to kiss into his hairline. She lingers there longer than she needs to, eyes closed, hands on his dainty shoulders.   
  
“I’m all better, mama!”   
  
“Okay. Go play then. And be careful.”   
  
He nods and takes off on scrawny legs to rush to Kyrie and reassure her that he’s fine. Once the girl is convinced, she grabs his wrist to pull him to another part of the playground - but slower this time. Dante and Aster watch the pair go before she pats the spot next to her on the yard. He doesn’t have to be told twice. He drops like his legs stopped working, staring at the toddlers with snakes writhing in his gut.   
  
“He doesn’t heal.”   
  
“He does not.”   
  
“But… I thought…” The words fumble past his lips with the usual inexpert grace that takes hold of his tongue every time he has to deal with anything more serious than a sword through the gut. “You’re not a half-demon?”   
  
“Don’t be so blasé when you say things like that with people close by,” she chastises feebly. “And… no. Why would you think I was?”   
  
“Just kind of figured Vergil wouldn’t give you the time of day if you weren’t. You do remember what he was like right?” Dante raises his eyebrows at her and Aster’s mouth tucks to the side. “Sorry. But I mean… You know I’m right.” He settles backward to rest his palms in the thick grass. Above them, the wind rustles through the trees and carries the kids’ giggling to them. Aster closes her eyes.   
  
“Do you know what a homunculus is?”   
  
“Sure.” He tilts his head up to watch gulls drift through the endless sea of sky. “They’re human-ish constructs. Usually made out of bone and mud and… human blood…” Everything clicks into place at once. Aster feels different in a nebulous, hard-to-place way. She doesn’t have the same aura as Lady, and Aster can do things he’s never seen a regular human pull off. Even as they talk, her hair unbraids itself in an expression of her nervousness. “...Shut up.”   
  
“That’s your go-to response?”   
  
“I mean-” One hand gestures like maybe that will make talking easier. “I’ve seen a homunculus. They don’t look like you. Most of ‘em kinda lean into the whole ‘being made of mud’ thing.”   
  
“My … mother had a practiced hand. She was a very old, very powerful witch. By the time I was created, dozens like me had come and gone.” He doesn’t fail to notice the past tense of those words. He’s smart enough to not bring it up right now. “Making something that’s indistinguishable from a human became trivial for her.”   
  
“Yeah but… I mean, you had a kid. I didn’t even think that was possible.”   
  
Aster laughs under her breath. “Neither did I.”   
  
“Ah.” That explains how the two most meticulous people he’s ever met could have a baby out of wedlock. Only a few hundred more questions to go. His mind keeps grappling with this homunculus thing. It doesn’t change who Aster is but it does explain things. The way she looks, her hair, her magic, and - most concerningly - Nero’s healing. Or lack thereof. “And… you don’t have any kind of…”   
  
She shakes her head and tucks her slim legs beneath herself. Her eyes stay forward and follow her son’s every movement. “No. I have some magic for wounds but it only affects myself and is exhausting. I guess I’m to blame for his deficiency.”   
  
“No, don’t- don’t put it like that.”   
  
“Either way, the pair of us are nearly as human as anyone else on this island.”   
  
That’s what he was afraid of.   
  
As if sensing the iron knot of anxiety in his stomach, the wounds in his sides throb enough to remind him of their existence. Something that would tear a normal person apart, leave them with liquefied organs, is just an inconvenience to him. The same can’t be said of the last family he has. He lets his arms slip out from under him so he can topple back onto the grass. Trees rustle in the wind, Stella calls from the bench to ask if they’re all right, and his perfectly normal, almost human nephew jogs toward them with Kyrie on his heels.   
  
“Is Uncle Dante okay?”   
  


\--

  
  
Thirty-six hours later, Dante wakes up on his couch in the Devil May Cry with Lady under his arm and his favorite bartender’s cheek squished against his bare chest. He looks at the clock on the wall and it reads 4AM. He’s lost the last four hours to whatever heinous shit Eryn brought out of the backroom at Bullseye. The black-as-pitch bottle is on his desk and woefully empty or he’d have another few shots. Anything to nuke his memory.   
  
At least he had fun somewhere in those missing four hours. His neck is covered in hickies, Lady’s legs are tangled in his, and Eryn’s arms are looped around his waist. They’re in various stages of undress - though all pants and underwear appear accounted for. The relief doesn’t do much to wash away the nasty taste, like moonshine and an old woman’s perfume, coating the inside of his mouth. He smacks his lips but they stay unbearably dry.   
  
“Ghk… a’right… you two’re great but I godda…” Dante slurs to himself, but neither Lady nor Eryn wake from their drunken comas. Both look comfortable despite the poison they drank. Human biology is a wonderful thing like that. They’ll be miserable in the morning, but the alcohol will stay in their system longer and keep them sleeping. The thought conjures back up the worry he tried to drink away and he groans. “Okay, okay, I jus’- shit-” With some careful squirming, Dante frees himself from the snarl of the limbs he’s become entwined in. Lady grumbles at the sudden loss of a warm body to nestle into but is just as quick to tuck herself into the corner of the couch. Eryn slumps forward to lay his head on her leg and soon both are motionless in sleep.   
  
Water. He needs water. The old hag stank on his tongue is starting to get to him.   
  
He half walks, half staggers across the shop floor, nearly tripping on his t-shirt as he goes, taking a break to brace himself on the edge of his desk until the room stops wobbling. Briefly he wonders how Lady and Eryn are alive if that bottled venom could throw him for such a loop. He stumbles the rest of the way to bathroom at the back, making sure to close and lock the door behind him.   
  
He doesn’t even bother with the glass on his counter, opting instead to turn on the faucet and bend down to stick his mouth under it. Then he tilts his head to let the water course over the back of his scalp in some attempt to ease the headache starting to pound inside his skull. Never again. He’s never drinking any of the weird garbage Eryn stows away for them ever again.   
  
(But he always says that, doesn’t he?)   
  
Ice cold water soaks through his hair, running over his forehead and into the drain. It helps a little. More of his weight slumps against the counter as the drunken vertigo returns. All he can do is ride it out until the blackness behind his eyelids stops swirling and he can open his eyes. His gaze sweeps across his torso and surveys what’s left of the injuries that demon gave him a few days ago. A handful of pink, circular scars about the size of his palm run along either side of his ribcage. They stopped hurting this morning. By dawn, they’ll be gone entirely.   
  
The mirror is waiting for him when he lifts his head. Of course it is. The face in front of him twists into a discontented scowl but it isn’t the same expression as the one he’s thinking of. It’s his own confliction and reservations pulling his features tight, clenching his jaw. The light in the bathroom feels too bright, the walls too stark. He scrubs the heel of his palm into an eye to salve the throbbing behind it.   
  
“Are you ever going to go away,” he finally asks the empty room.   
  
The bathroom doesn’t respond. Why would it?   
  
“I get it, you know.” He doesn’t look at the mirror. He realizes the hand he’s been rubbing into his eye is his left and that he hasn’t thought about the wound that once scored his palm open in years. Calloused fingers uncurl to survey his skin. There’s no scar to reflect on. No mark at all. Just the memory of one. “The … everything.” It’s annoying how much he gets it. “I mean, it was the wrong way to do it and you’re still an asshole but...”   
  
_Without strength, you cannot protect anything._   
  
Dante’s fingers roll back into a fist, flexing and unflexing, as a wan smile pulls across his mouth. At least the others are passed out. He already thinks he’s crazy for having a conversation with his reflection. The last thing he needs is for them to hear it and think the same. Or, god forbid, start worrying. He heaves a long sigh and pushes himself up to sit on his bathroom counter. His back lays against the mirror; his feet swing to and fro mindlessly. No matter what he does to distract his thoughts, they inevitably refocus on Nero and Aster and how completely human they are. For better and for worse.   
  
“I do get it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know "Aster" and "Stella" mean the same thing? They both mean "star," but the former is Greek and the latter is Latin. I didn't even mean for that to happen. Aster is named for the flower, and Stella is named for the Ave Maris Stella. Just a neat little moment of serendipity.


	6. Journals 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have [a tumblr](http://radioinactivity.tumblr.com/) if you want to come talk to me about Devil May Cry or writing in general.

Dreamt of mother again. It was her but it wasn’t. She was wearing one of my sister’s faces, one I didn’t know. I never learned her name. She’s in photos on the wall, decades dead and buried. Always so beautiful and so sad. Aware of our fate. In my dream, mother was wearing her. Bent over me and smiling, I could see the gray streaks in her honey hair, could see the first sign of laugh lines at the corner of her mouth. “Time to do your duty,” she said and started to peel off my skin. I woke up crying. It’s 3AM. I’m still crying.

\--

 _Dec. 28, 19X1  
_ So cold in this godforsaken shop. Hate winter. I keep feeding the fireplace wood and still the cold comes in through the windows. No wonder mother never used this place for her work. It’s impossible to focus on what needs done, but here I am, wearing a quilt like someone’s grandma, trying to make heads-and-tails of the notes Vergil brought back from the first seal. They’re more meticulous than I expected - which I appreciate - but devil help me, his handwriting is a nightmare. In another life, he’d make a fine doctor.

His drawings of the mosaics on the walls in the main chamber are impressive though. Better than anything I’ve attempted. They’ve been the most helpful thing he recorded. Who would have thought he’d be such a capable draftsman? Now I have a general idea of where each of the remaining five are. Tomorrow I’ll check the Archives to narrow it down further. There’s also the issue of gaining access to the seals but that’s a bridge I can’t worry about crossing yet. Locations first. If I have to pack up and go with Vergil to tear down the bricks myself, I will.  
  
My research has been subsumed by the Tower. Every other client I’ve taken on has become a secondary priority. The Tower is such a monumental undertaking, the machinations of its summoning so complex and interesting, I can hardly focus on anything else. Translations for the Order feel rote and meaningless in the shadow of something so world-altering.   
  
But “rote and meaningless” pays the bills. Arkham is bankrolling this endeavor and to call him skinflint would be generous. Either he’s cheap or he’s loathe to work with me and is trying to price me out. I suspect he doubts my abilities. It doesn’t matter. If Vergil believes I can be of use, then there’s nothing the old boor can do. Would it be gauche to ask for a raise?   
  
_Dec. 29, 19X1_   
Leaving the Harbor District is always such an endeavor. The Order is too fussy over dress codes. I should think their “God” would be happy to be worshiped no matter what. I don’t see why long skirts and head coverings are requisite. This red dress is so uncomfortable but I have to wear it to keep from drawing attention to myself on the way. At least the dress is warm. The Archives are even colder than the shop.   
  
From the locations I’ve been able to parse together, Temen-ni-gru is repressed by a six-pointed Major Seal. Each point represents a Minor Seal that has to be undone. The theory is that they’re generally equidistant from each other (give or take several dozen miles), forming a standard hexastral shape. But that doesn’t narrow the exact location down much. Trying to find a specific entrance over dozens of miles would take days, and most will be carefully hidden. It wouldn’t do for some locals to stumble across a demonic sanctum on accident-   
  
Vergil is here?   
  
Addendum - He’s asking me about progress and the next seal location. I put him to work. Give me all the dirty looks you want, I can weather them. There’s too much information in this building to comb through it on my own. I’ve got him finding books and bringing them to me. This is clearly not what he was expecting when he came. I told him to give me a raise so I can afford a research assistant. He says a fourth person in the operation would complicate things.   
  
So I told him to cut out Arkham and I swear I caught him smiling.   
  
Starting with the two seals we have the most information on. Seems easier. One is far to the north, somewhere around Banquo Harbor, and the other is west of the Bermoothes. This time of year, Banquo Harbor is completely frozen over. Unless you’re on an icebreaker, a boat won’t get you there and persistent storms mean air travel is out of the question. So the Bermoothes it is until the spring. There are plenty of options. Some ruins that are as old as the Rebellion.   
  
Oh. There’s an idea.   
  
Addendum 2 - Turns out there was a battle during the Rebellion that spanned the entire island chain. According to the histories, Sparda’s power is why what once was a verdant forest is now permanently scrub-land and ravines. It seems the fight was to control a hellgate on the westernmost isle. The power that hellgate generates is what keeps our second seal shut. At least that’s my current theory.   
  
Vergil is looking over one of the books - a chronicle of records copied by some enterprising steward back when this island was newly inhabited. It’s written in old Norn so he can’t understand a word of it but seems fascinated nonetheless. He asked me to read parts aloud while I worked. Struck me as the type to demand key information and nothing else. But no. He wanted to hear the exact words detailing the actions and deeds of Sparda himself. Stayed quiet the whole time. Something on his mind. Impossible to tell what.   
  
And I’m staring at him. I should be working but my eyes linger while his attention is snared elsewhere. I said before that he’s beautiful and I do mean that. It’s hard to look away. Like a masterwork painting come to life and nearly as unobtainable.   
  
Good god. What am I writing? I’m acting like some sort of adolescent girl with a crush. I’m eighteen, I should know better.   
  
_Dec. 30, 19X1_   
Interesting morning. Spent it out on the balcony grilling my partner(?) for details. Told him I needed to know who he is to understand the job, when really it’s just curiosity that’s driving me. He picked up on it - he’s not stupid, after all - but humored me anyways. To a degree. Bribes of coffee and breakfast and a book of matches for his cigarettes probably helped. Seemed amused by my blanket, though. I can’t help my aversion to cold. I’m made of clay and he’s a half-breed. One of us is significantly more suited for the winter.   
  
Half-breed. As in, half-bred demon. Sparda’s progeny survived, though the look he gave me as I brought up his mother could stop a man dead. Took the hint. That’s a subject off limits. Not everyone can be so flippant about their dead mom, I guess.   
  
Nor was he inclined to tell me what was driving him to raise the Temen-ni-gru but can I fault him for that? When he asked me the same question, I told him it’s intellectual desire to see Hell itself with my own eyes. Suppose that’s true. It’s the simple answer. Anything complex comes with caveats and family histories and it would be dull to a man like him. Sob stories would bore him to death. He is, as I said before, a man of action. His sword was within reach the whole time we spoke. If he’s a Son of Sparda then it must be Yamato. There’s a book with information about it somewhere in the house but I do know it can cut the fabric of reality. That explains how he entered the first seal so easily.   
  
It would have been helpful to know that a few weeks ago. I’ve lost sleep trying to sort out how he would enter each of the seals when I have such limited information to work with. And I told him as much.   
  
God help me, I think he smiled. His mouth twitched anyways. Said he liked seeing me think and theorize, lets him know that I was right for the job. I’m glad he’s finally left. Sometimes I don’t know what to say around that man.

\--

 _Jan. 1, 19X2_  
Happy New Year.   
  
Will they keep counting them the same way after he opens the gate? I wonder.

\--

 _Jan. 15, 19X2_  
Back to doing work for the Order and my other clients while I wait but it feels pointless in comparison. All I want is for him to come back with more news, more illustrations. Who cares about lithographs and maps?   
  
At least Mme. Coutier’s porcine grandson brought me a new puzzle to solve in the meantime. It is as meaningless as the rest of my less important work but I respect the old witch’s dedication to the craft. Her spellcasting is immaculate, her skill with runes second only to my mother’s. A diversion of such complexity is welcome. If only it didn’t entail dealing with her offspring. Whatever was in his grandmother’s box made him an even wealthier and more conceited man. I should charge him triple for the service. Those who don’t respect a good seal deserve as much.   
  
Hah. Just realized the irony there.   
  
Should buy a good bottle of wine with the money, see if Vergil would be interested in sharing it with me. We can toast being heretics together.   
  
_Jan. 16, 19X2_   
Wine purchase was prophetic because yet again I have a Son of Sparda in my home. The second seal is done. We sat in the shop and drank the entire bottle while he explained what he saw and what was in his notes. Seemed annoyed at my praise for his drafting. But most things seem to annoy him, so who knows? Maybe that’s how he handles compliments.   
  
By his descriptions, the second seal had different construction from the other. It and the first are likely repurposed shrines. As Mme. Coutier built her workshop on a minor hellgate, so too did ancient pagans build their houses of devotion on sites where the old magicks flowed most freely. If the other four are of similar origin, I can use that as another point of reference. Pre-existing structures as old as the Rebellion. With one more, I’ll be able to triangulate the general area of the remaining three without even needing to solve any old riddle. Then it’s just a matter of researching those regions to see if anything meets our criteria.   
  
Unfortunately, the Banquo Harbor seal remains out of the question until, at best, the end of February. I’m going back to the Archives tomorrow to pour over maps and records. It’s a good thing Vergil decided to show up when he did. He makes a fine assistant.

\--

~~Nightmares again. The anniversary is getting closer. Five years soon. I’m dreaming of that night. Over and over, stabbing her until the blood is everywhere. Soaking my dress, my skin, my hair, covering the floor. It seeps into everything. Ruins the study. But it’s not mother. It’s one of my sisters. Dahlia. Begs me to stop. “It’s me, Aster,” she says. “You’re hurting me.” But I don’t stop. She stares at me the whole time. She doesn’t blink. She keeps telling me I’m hurting her. This won’t make it go away. I’m still a mere vessel. Nothing will change that.~~

~~Mother was there. She was there. She was watching, petting my hair. Watching me, watching us, always watching. We all have the same eyes. Always there. So amused by our struggling.~~

Stop. Stop. **_Stop writing._ ** Don’t think about it. She’s dead. I killed her.

Someone is here.

\--

 _Feb. 20, 19X2_  
The third seal was cursed.   
  
I don’t know how it happened or the source of it. The details aren’t exactly forthcoming. Vergil’s too delirious to elaborate and I’m too exhausted to press the matter. He staggered into the shop hours ago, rambling through clenched teeth. Burning up with fever, slipping in and out of some monstrous form that I can only assume is a benefit of his bloodline. No wonder he was wrapped up in that cloak. Must be able to control it normally because he seemed confused to find himself changing even in his fervor. How long has he been traveling in this state? All the way from Arden Valley? ~~And he came to me, instead of~~ No. I’m being sentimental. Where else would he go? I doubt Arkham could handle this. It makes sense for him to come here.   
  
The fever alone would have killed him if he were a mere human. I suspect that demonic state of his is what kept him alive, which is why he kept spontaneously shifting into it. A self preservation mechanism maybe? If only its nails weren’t so sharp - I look like I’ve been mauled by a massive cat. The worst of them are bandaged but my nightgown is ruined. Blood all over the place.   
  
He apologized for it, though the words were slurred. He really must be cursed if he’s feeling remorse for something so trivial. There’s nothing for him to apologize for. This is my fault. I should have anticipated that at least a few of these seals would have further defenses beyond guardians. They are, after all, suppressing the means to destroy the world. It was naive of me to think it would be so simple.

He’s passed out. Sleeping in my bed. Still running a fever but the intensity of the heat has subsided. Stopped transforming, at least. Now I’m left alone to figure out how to lift this and think of the things he said as I helped him upstairs. Muttering for his father, his mother and “Dante.” A brother? None of it made much sense. He looked… haunted. Laid so much of his weight on me as we came up the stairs, buried his face in my shoulder. Smells like those cigarettes. It’s still clinging to my hair. That and blood. I need to clean up.

At least this is a distraction from the anniversary.  
  
Addendum - Further symptoms: night terrors. No screaming - will of steel, how enviable - but he jolted awake while I cleaned myself up. Made a grab for me half-transformed, speared him through the hand with my hair. The pain snapped him out of it. When he collapsed, he was rambling about demons in the house. How he needed to get home to “mom and Dante.” And then he apologized once again.  
  
Addendum 2 - Fever, body aches, internal bleeding, peeling skin, night terrors, and now hallucinations. Insists that someone else is in the house. Twin boys running down the stairs, his mother playing piano. A curse almost surreal in its cruelty. There’s only one person I know who could craft something so needlessly agonizing and so potent that even a half-demon could be this afflicted.  
  
Mother’s notebooks should still be in the attic.  
  
Addendum 3 - Long night. Should start an entry for the 21st. Past 4am. Too tired to worry about proper notation.  
  
Vergil’s sleeping. Soundly. Ish. Muttering but no terrors, no hallucinations, no spontaneous transformation. Feeling optimistic that I’ve lifted the hex. Gained a monstrous headache for the efforts though. Was indeed mother’s craft. Something she must have put in place after the Rebellion to safeguard Sparda’s work. Was he was aware of its effects? Can’t deny how convincing it must have been. All it would take is one hapless treasure hunter stumbling into town, vomiting up the lining of their stomach and seeing visions of ghosts and demons to ward people away from it for the next millennia or two.  
  
She was thorough. Mme. Coutier’s magic looks like parlor tricks in the face of Aria the Undying’s sorcery. Took a pint of his blood + my own to lift it. No one else could have done it. Since we share blood, the curse reacted to me as though I were the original caster. Incantation was perfect. Sacrificed one of the better artifacts from the shop, a Devil Arm called Lavinia, to fully dispel it.   
  
Dagger is a warped lump of slag. Feeling anemic. Chair is so comfy. Is it too banal to sleep next to the bed of your patient? No energy to make it to couch. But this is fine. If anything is wrong, I’ll be close when he wakes.  
  
_Feb. 21, 19X2_  
Mornings on the balcony are starting to become a routine with us. I woke alone, well past noon, and found him in his usual spot. We both look like shit. Him with dark circles under his eyes and myself pale as a sheet from blood loss. Made coffee with rum for breakfast to ease our aches while I explained everything that happened. He looked a bit stricken when I told him of his hallucinations and ramblings. The mentions of his family. Swore myself to secrecy, that it would stay between the two of us, not unlike our plan for the apocalypse.  
  
Told me about his family. A little bit, anyways. His brother and his mother. Things I don’t dare write, in the spirit of keeping my promise. It’s no good for posterity anyways. A witch’s notebook should technically be for her research, not a diary, and some secrets are meant to stay unwritten.  
  
In the same vein, he asked of my own mother. Why she wasn’t here when he came calling for her. How Aria the Undying - a general of Sparda himself - could end up dead. And I told him. The annotated version anyways. It didn’t offend him, though I do think matricide sits strangely with someone who loved his own so dearly. He’s mature enough to understand that not everyone was so blessed with a kind and patient mother.  
  
He thanked me. First apologized for my new wounds (I reminded him they would heal perfectly fine) and then thanked me. Very quiet, very reserved, but genuine. Never had someone stare through me like that before. Just remembering it makes my ears burn. ~~His eyes are so~~ No. Absolutely not. This isn’t a diary and I won’t even entertain those kind of thoughts. This is work. We’re partners. ~~Anything else would overcomplicate this, no matter how soul-rendingly beautiful he is.~~  
  
Focus.  
  
Where to from here? Today, we rest, despite his complaints. Neither of us are in the physical condition to work. Research can resume tomorrow. I must make a better effort to learn of seals’ interior. Letting Vergil hurl himself into the unknown doesn’t sit well with me. But tonight, I’m going to go buy another bottle of rum, make more coffee, and find out if he likes Debussy.  
  
Addendum - No. The only reason I didn’t politely ask him to leave is because he does like The Animals. I _suppose_ he gets a pass. And now he’s ribbing me for always writing in my notebooks. I guess I’m done for the evening.

 _Feb. 22, 19X2_  
Vergil stayed the night again. With me. In my bed.   
  
It was nice.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there it is.


	7. Paint by Numbers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by the Hayao Miyazaki School of Domestic Goodness.

“Uncle Dante, when’s pamcakes?”  
  
 _“Pan-_ cakes,” he corrects with a slight grin and probes the edge of their breakfast with the spatula. Bubbles are popping up across the uncooked surface of the batter. He’s never done this before, but according to Aster’s singular, untouched cookbook, this second attempt is going well. The first is currently sitting in the sink, discs of batter burned to charcoal but somehow still doughy on the inside. “And gimme a minute.”  
  
“I’m hungry nowwww,” whines the five year old boy at the small kitchen table behind him. Nero drops his face onto the table and lets out a long, dramatic gurgle. “M’dying… Mama’s gonna get mad cus’ you let me die from hunger…”  
  
Dante’s become well acquainted with his nephew’s overblown reaction to being hungry. He doesn’t even turn around to acknowledge the boy. This is his first time cooking in the house, but he’s seen the whining fits pitched when take out or reheated leftovers take too long. So he keeps prodding at the hotcakes and lets Nero kick his feet to and fro with petulant unhappiness. It had been six, maybe seven months since the last time Dante stayed the night in Fortuna and he wanted to make a nice morning out of it.   
  
Now if only the kid’s mom sat with them to praise his cooking skill. But Aster had been a ghost since about 8AM the day before. The entire reason Dante is here, keeping an eye on his nephew, is because his not-quite-sister-in-law was on the verge of some kind of grimoire translation breakthrough and desperately needed to go undisturbed. So he answered the call to play babysitter and keep his rowdy, attention-seeking kin out of his mom’s study for 24 hours. Most of it was going well. There _was_ a narrowly averted fall into the harbor though. Nero had a growing love for mechanical things and boats were his current fascination. He’d been so focused on a mainland paddleboat that he’d nearly slipped off the dock, only for Dante to catch him by his hoodie.  
  
They both promised to not mention that one to Aster.  
  
“Soooo hun-greeee…” the voice behind him whines yet again. Dante glances at their pancakes, peeks at the cookbook open next to him, and decides that’s bubbly enough.  
  
“Almost done. Now!” He gestures wildly beside himself and Nero tilts his head up with curiosity. “Stand back. I’m going to try something crazy. You ever seen someone flip three pancakes at once, kiddo?”  
  
“I just want food.”  
  
He makes a note to have a conversation with Aster about the value of style over pragmatism and what she’s teaching the boy. For now, he elects to ignore his sulky nephew, lifts the skillet off the stove eye, plants his feet, and-  
  
“IT IS _DONE!”_  
  
The voice from upstairs is so loud that it startles Dante just as he flips the pancakes into the air. Nero lets out a surprised shout - either from the yelling or from the potential of losing his food - and sits bolt upright in his chair. Dante fumbles inelegantly to swing the pan behind his head and make sure his hard work isn’t squandered. Their breakfast lands unharmed, batter side down, inside the skillet. Momentary stillness settles over the kitchen and the two look at each other, equal parts confused and frightened.  
  
Above their heads, a pair of feet pad across the floor. They wait with bated breath until Aster appears at the top of the stairs with a loud sigh of relief. She’s still wearing her nightgown and oversized sweater from the day before, her usually flawless hair pulled into a sloppy half bun, fraying outward like even her magic is frazzled from the work.  
  
“Mama!”  
  
“Well, well. She emerges from her nerd cave.”  
  
“I’m not even going to acknowledge that,” Aster replies, swinging her arms as she descends the steps to collapse into the chair next to Nero. He’s grinning away and breaks into a squealing laugh when she collapses toward her son to press a kiss to one of his round cheeks. Dante’s worried those weird languages finally melted her brain. “I’m too happy to be _free_ from that awful grimoire.” She smushes her cheek against Nero’s and the boy keeps giggling, half-heartedly trying to shove her head away.  
  
“Mama, make Uncle Dante gimme my pamcakes!”  
  
“Pan- Are you _cooking?”_ A pause and then Aster’s brow furrows. “Was that what was burning earlier?”  
  
Dante brandishes his spatula at his whatever-she-is like a Devil Arm. “Were you seriously in that deep?” She shrugs in response and sinks into her kitchen chair. “Well, guess that means you didn’t hear that stuff break in the shop - Kidding, kidding, kidding!” Aster’s red hair stops halfway through shooting across the room to run him through like a pincushion. “And yes, I have mastered the art of the hotcake. Just don’t look in the sink.”  
  
It’s not long before there’s the normal morning clatter of three people trying to navigate a tiny kitchen in a tiny townhouse. Aster brings out the celebratory “good mugs”, all from various horror franchises and attractions, and fills two with coffee and one with milk. Dante has to lean over her to get to the plates. Nero complains right until breakfast is in front of him.  
  
“Please be good,” he whispers to his pancakes, ignoring his uncle’s scowl. Then he digs in with vigor, cramming his mouth full on the first bite. His mother and uncle both wait in silence for the verdict. Except his mouth is too full to speak, so he can only lift an approving thumbs up.  
  
“See? _Mastered.”  
  
_ Aster doesn’t look at him, but he can see the ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. Dante knows to clamp down on radiating with smugness or risk spoiling the moment. He sips at his coffee and makes a mental note to try this again at home. Maybe for Lady and Eryn, so they’ll stop acting like he’s completely helpless in the kitchen.  
  
“So you got that book did?” Nero asks when his mouth isn’t completely stuffed.  
  
“Mmhmm. All finished. I’m gonna call Captain Loreto after breakfast and let him know he can pick it up,” Aster replies in an absent tone as she cuts into her own food. However her son yanks his head up like someone fired a shotgun in the house, attention laser focused on his mom. “Yes, I’ll ask if he can bring Kyrie with him.” His unspoken question answered, Nero resumes eating with a new, happy bobble in his movements. Aster turns her fond attention from the boy to Dante, propping her chin in one palm. “So where did you two sleep last night? I don’t think I heard anyone get in my bed…”  
  
“You noticed that in your fugue state?”  
  
“What’s a few-guh?”  
  
“It’s what happens when your mom gets a new puzzle to play with.”  
  
“Ohhhh.”  
  
A crumpled up, empty sugar packet bounces off Dante’s forehead. He flashes his best and most charming smile Aster’s way and she continues to scowl behind her _Attack of the Night Nurse_ mug. So much for not spoiling the moment. At least her hair is still hanging around her shoulders. “Anyways, we slept on the couch. Didn’t wanna throw off your groove.”  
  
“Both of you?”  
  
“Sure! Had him on my chest like an uncle bear and cub. He’s real cuddly when he’s sleepy-” Another sugar packet thwacks against his cheek, this time from his red-faced nephew. “-And it’s not like I got a bedroom to put him in. You gotta do something about that, Aster.”  
  
Nero still didn’t have his own room. Aster’s “study” was moreso a cordoned off part of her bedroom so it wasn’t like they could convert that into another room. The second floor was taken up entirely by the living room and kitchen and the first was the shop. All of the finished space in the house was accounted for. It meant Nero still shared a bed with his mom - an arrangement neither minded _now_ but would be untenable sooner than later. They were finally at the bridge that needed crossed.  
  
Aster knows that. The way her lips press together and her eyes cut off to the side… It’s visible all over her face. She glances at Nero as he surveys them like a tennis match, blue eyes bouncing back and forth, waiting for someone to speak. The “space issue” is a conversation they’ve had before. Dante knows what he wants to say because he’s said it half a dozen times before: they should move. Pack up the shop and the books and trinkets and their stuff and move. Maybe not to Capulet City but someplace less unsettling than Fortuna. Someplace closer to him.  
  
But he’s also well aware of why she stays. It isn’t just an attachment to the townhouse or her work or Nero’s fondness for Captain Loreto’s daughter… It’s a what-if dangling over both of their heads like a sword on a thread.  
  
 _“What if_ ** _he_** _comes back some day and we aren’t here?”  
  
_ With the way Aster’s pointedly busying herself with her food, he knows she’s going through the same mental conversation as him. Neither of them want to have that argument again so Dante holds his tongue. He sips at his coffee, keeps his posture casual, and glances up at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles as absent thoughts of extra overhead space pop into his brain.  
  
“...what about the attic?”   
  
“Huh?”  
  
“I’ve been up there. It’s not _that_ full.” He itches at the five o’clock shadow on his chin. The hamster in the wheel that powers his brain starts to run. “We could move most of that stuff either into the shop or your study. Hell, some of it could probably come with me. I’ve got a storage room.”  
  
“Wh- He can’t live up there. The walls aren’t finished,” Aster retorts.  
  
“Just need a coat of paint. And I know it doesn’t have lights, but it’s got outlets. We could get a couple’a lamps, move that armoire of his up there…” It’s already halfway come together in Dante’s mind. He blinks a few times as the idea solidifies. “Huh. Why didn’t we think of this before? It’d be like a secret hideout.”  
  
“I CAN LIVE IN THE ATTIC!?” Nero blurts out, slamming his palms onto the kitchen table so hard that their silverware rattles.  
  
Aster flusters, especially as Nero’s enthusiasm grows. The only way to describe his expression is “sparkling” as he looks expectantly at her. She waves her hands to try and coax his expectations into the realm of reality. Dante can spot the beginnings of Worrying Mom Mode before the words even leave her mouth. “The only way into the attic is through that pull-down ladder. What if he- what if you fall?”  
  
“It’s not really a ladder. It’s angled and he handles the stairs just fine. C’mon, you’re fussing again,” Dante says in return.  
  
“Mom! I wanna live in the attic! That’s cool! That’s _so cool!”_  
  
That eagerness doesn’t do much to assuage her worries. She shifts in her chair and twiddles anxiously with a piece of her hair, looking between two far more optimistic faces with teeth biting down on the inside of her cheek. If it were any other topic, Dante would feel bad about ganging up on her like this. But Nero needs his own room and there’s really only one place to put him.  
  
“W… we can’t move his stuff by ourselves. I know you’re plenty strong, but it’s a lot of boxes and that armoire is unwieldy and we’d need help and I’m not going to bother Captain Loreto and-”  
  
“That’s fine.” It probably isn’t, but Dante is pretty sure he’s amassed enough small favors to make this work. If that fails and he has to get serious, he can pull the “I didn’t let you fall to your death” card. “I can get some help!”  
  
“Like _who?"_

_  
\-- _

  
“I cannot believe I let you talk me into this.”  
  
Lady’s voice is a perfect monotone. She’s staring straight ahead at the bodega across the street, waiting for the crosswalk sign to change. They’ve been traveling for approximately four hours to get here, all to move some furniture into an attic and carry a dozen-or-so boxes of books to Capulet City. She’s got to be at the point of realizing how farcical this is because her face has gone completely blank. His only response is a sheepish laugh.  
  
“I, uh, didn’t let you fall to your death?”  
  
“Yeah! I know!” She snaps into expressiveness as soon as he opens his stupid mouth. “You said so back at the shop! And honestly, if I knew it would end in me getting on a boat to come to this creepy ass island-” The crosswalk light changes. Dante starts walking and Lady is right behind. “-I would’ve been fine with falling the whole way down!”  
  
He makes sure to wave at the owner of the bodega as they pass. Five years he’s been making these trips to Fortuna and he’s become as much a regular in some of the usual stop-offs as Aster.  
  
“It’s not … _that_ creepy.”  
  
They walk into the neighboring alley with Lady moving backwards down the steps, never missing her footing, mouth pulled to the side with annoyance. “They worship _your dad._ They’ve got a statue of him bigger than a house. I saw it in a magazine.”  
  
“Eghhh, did they finish that? I never go to that side of town… Okay, yes. It’s a little creepy, but the Harbor District is nice. And it’s definitely for a good cause! You get to meet my cute nephew!”  
  
The road opens into the familiar backstreet bathed in warm spring light. Lady looks over her shoulder, spying the townhouse in question. There’s already a few crates on a dolly in front of the stoop and all of the windows, including the attic’s dormers, are open wide. Every so often, Aster or Nero pass by one, busy with whatever work they haven’t finished in the week he’s been gone and oblivious to being watched. He hopes the whole scene looks inviting enough to pique his notoriously antisocial partner’s interest.  
  
Mercifully, her scowl softens.  
  
“Ugh. Whatever. No use in complaining now that I’m here.” The corner of her mouth quirks upward even as she rolls her eyes. “What was I gonna do? Go get back on the boat?” And then she notices the way he’s squinting at her. “Okay. Maybe I would. Look, lead the way.”  
  
Inside the shop, it’s more cluttered than ever. Boxes sit in a pile in one corner, framed manuscripts and prints stacked against the wall, and some of Aster’s old cipher machines are lined up on the counter. Dante recognizes it as the attic’s varied contents. The assortment of oddities impresses Lady enough to coax a soft whistle from her. His fellow devil hunter stoops down to scrutinize a stack of books on the floor, flipping open the cover of the one on top and raising her eyebrows.  
  
“First edition… Hell of a collection she’s got. Where’d she-”  
  
No chance to finish that question. There’s sudden, rapid fire thudding above them and a high pitched shriek. Both yank their heads over to look at the stairs, instincts forcing them to expect the worse, just in time to see a small figure with fluffy white hair come bolting into the shop like a bat out of hell. Dante’s arm shoots out on reflex and that squealing ball of energy runs into it full force.  
  
“Oof!”  
  
And then he easily hoists his nephew up into his arms, only to see that the little towhead is splattered with slate blue paint that is now smearing all over Dante’s t-shirt.  
  
“Aw, seriously…?”  
  
That’s when a wild eyed Aster comes staggering down the stairs, looking demon enough to make him doubt her claim that she’s a simple homunculus. She also has blue paint splattered in a fine mist across her clothes. The boy in his arms starts squirming and kicking to either get free or climb up onto his uncle’s head.  
  
“Uncle Dante! Save me! She’s gonna turn me into a frog!”  
  
As she advances on them, the only thing Dante can think to do is point toward where Lady has tried to put herself out the blast zone. Her mismatched eyes dart around, suddenly on the spot when she was happy to be a spectator, and she gives a brief, awkward wave. The nightmare aura radiating from his not-sister subsides and Nero sighs with relief.  
  
“Oh! You must be the backup Dante mentioned. I, uh-” Her eyes flicker to her child and his uncle and a sheepish smile cracks across his face. “I wasn’t _really_ going to turn him into a frog.” She offers her less-paint-covered hand out to Lady, who takes it after taking a moment to consider her health. “Aster.”  
  
“Lady. And don’t worry about it. Just don’t go turning me into anything.”  
  
“And this!” Dante announces, pointing at the boy hanging onto him. “Is Nero. My extremely cute nephew who got into the paint, didn’t’cha?”   
  
Nero responds by smacking a tiny palm against the top of his head as his cheeks steadily turn pink from being called “cute.” But he doesn’t say anything, overcome by the usual shyness that takes him when meeting someone completely new. He just huffs and turns his face away with fingers clinging a bit tighter to Dante’s shirt.   
  
Neither he nor his mother, too preoccupied with trying to find something to wipe away paint, notice Lady studying the boy’s scowling profile with knitted brows. She doesn’t say anything though. Dante has a pretty good idea of what she’s seeing, because he always notices it. The familiarity of his nephew’s glower caught him off guard the first time he saw it too. But she doesn’t comment on it. Once Aster’s attention refocuses on her new guest, that consternation vanishes, replaced with a slight smile.  
  
“So… I guess we should get to work?”

 

\--

 

The two women in Dante’s life have more in common than he anticipated.   
  
As Aster paints walls in the attic, Lady shouts hunting related questions from the floor below, which his nephew’s mother answers without missing a single brush stroke. Proper names for demons, their origin, why the various types tend to lurk where they do. After all these years, he’s only now realizing that his longtime friend doesn’t have a “formal education” in the occult. She merely excels at killing it.  
  
“You could’ve asked me all this stuff, y’know,” he points out as he carts the last trunk of notebooks into Aster’s study. “My dad taught me plenty when I was a kid. Think he thought it was a fun bedtime story.”  
  
“And there was an 80% chance you’d tell me wrong. Or just go: ‘ohhh, hell if I know, Lady.’”  
  
“I don’t sound like that.”  
  
Conversely, Aster’s loathing of combat means she hasn’t had a day of field work since before Nero was born. They change duties - Lady and Dante carefully hauling Nero’s massive armoire up the ladder to the attic while Aster hangs out below and pesters his partner about demonic hives.  
  
“I’ve heard Capulet City has- careful!” The steps creak ominously under the combined weight and everyone stops moving. They all wait in silence for something to give way. When nothing happens, Dante nods to Lady and they both hoist the massive piece of furniture back up. “I’ve heard Capulet City has an extensive, ancient aqueduct system under the current sewers. Historically, arcane covens would congregate in such hidden spaces. Have you come across any seals? Shrines? Altars?”  
  
He’s waiting for her to whip out a notebook and write down everything they say.  
  
“Can’t - rgh - can’t say that I have. If I run into any, you’ll be the first one I call.”  
  
No one mentions his twin. He was worried their first meeting would end in Lady asking Aster the same questions he posed half a decade ago, but those old how’s and why’s are completely forgotten as they work. Instead the sound of his partner laughing radiates from the attic. If he strains his ears, he can hear the quiet high notes of Aster’s subdued chuckle. He wonders if Lady even knows how rare that sound is. It’s probably best that she doesn’t, that she just keeps acting like her usual crass self to keep Aster laughing while they struggle to assemble a five year old’s bed.  
  
“Miss Lady’s funny,” Nero comments. The pair of them sit in his mother’s study, Nero across from Dante, watching his uncle try to put together the new bookshelves bought to hold the important books from the attic. “Her stories are really cool.”  
  
“S’that so?” He wonders why these instructions don’t have any damn words on them and why the support arms aren’t supporting anything. “Does that mean you think your dear ol’ uncle is cool?” The boy shakes his head, anticipating the faux-scowl that hits Dante’s face with a mischievous smile. “You’re breakin’ my heart, kiddo.”  
  
Anything Nero might have said is cut off by the sudden ring of the bell in the shop. His first inclination is to ignore it. The sign is flipped to “closed” and there’s too much going on today. He doesn’t hear Aster stir upstairs to go answer it either. So he’s happy to resume trying to piece together the shelf, until it rattles yet again and for longer. His nephew makes an annoyed growl, falling backward onto the floor.  
  
“Soooo annoying.”  
  
A third ring.  
  
“Ya got that right.”  
  
Then there’s the familiar muffled shuffling of someone walking overhead, followed by squeaking wood as Aster comes down the attic ladder and leans into her study with an exasperated look all over her face. It falters at the sight of her son sprawled out on the floor, turns bemused. She brushes the confusion off with a shake of her head and points at a wooden box on her desk.  
  
“Dante, pass me that. Loreto’s probably here to pick up the grimoire.”  
  
“Did you forget about him again?” he asks as he reaches overhead to grab it. Aster’s response is a nervous smile. “Geez, poor guy.” She snatches the box up once it’s in arms reach, then rushes to meet her guest.  
  
Which is when Nero comes to a sudden realization and sits upright in an instant. “Do you think he brought Kyrie with him!?” Not that he waits for a response. His little legs push him up to scramble out of his mom’s study and over to her window. Nose flattened against the glass, he peers at the stoop, only to make a confused noise. “Hey, that’s not Captain Loreto…”  
  
That catches his uncle’s attention. “Who is it?” He’s already on his feet, striding across the bedroom before the question leaves his mouth. Nero responds with a shrug of tiny shoulders.  
  
The kid is right - it’s definitely not Loreto. It’s someone new. A man much taller and broader than Aster, wearing the all white uniform of the Order beneath a dark hooded cloak. A pair of Knights stand a few paces behind him. Both are armed and both stand still as stone. The mysterious man extends a hand to Aster that she takes after a long moment’s hesitation, only for him to press a kiss to her knuckles. Dante can see her hair rise with discomfort the moment his lips make contact.  
  
“Hey, what’s going on? Aster just bolted--”  
  
“Shhh!” Nero hisses, catching Lady off guard as she descends the attic ladder. “I can’t hear them!”  
  
She looks between the boy and Dante, brow furrowed, head tilting in confusion. Her mouth forms a silent “what?” and his reply is to point at the window in front of him. They’ve gotten good at having conversations without saying a word. She knows to walk over and help him nudge the window open as slowly and silently as the old house will allow. What they manage is the smallest of gaps before the frame tries to creak, enough to hear the conversation outside. All three inch closer with ears turned toward the open window. Fragments of a sentence slip in.  
  
“--your work has b-b-b-been most invaluable.”  
  
“I’m… glad to be of assistance.”  
  
“As I understand, Captain Loreto has been compensating you p-p-p-per chapter, correct?” Aster nods and keeps her arms folded defensively around her stomach. “You’ll be paid for the full work as well, of course. But I simply had to come collect the grimoire personally. It is important, monumentally important, to my research.” Again the strange Order official reaches out to lay his huge hand on her far smaller shoulder.   
  
“And you should consider joining the Order. You’d be a fine, so very fine, addition to my t-t-team.”  
  
Something about this doesn’t feel right. Dante’s nerves itch with the desire to get up, walk down there, and tell all three of them to pound sand. Or maybe more. Rebellion’s in the living room, after all.  
  
“I’ll have to decline,” Aster says. The cold sharpness of her tone is uncomfortably familiar and he remembers being on the receiving end of it the night they met. She swats the stranger’s off her shoulder. It’s hard to see, but he can _hear_ the unfriendly smile in her voice when she speaks again: “I prefer to work as an independant. Now if you’ll excuse me, we’re closed."  
  
“Of course.” Inexplicable dread settles in Dante’s stomach as suspicious eyes lift and fixate on the three of them watching through the window. Their visitor’s head cants to the side. “Ah, is that your family?”  
  
Aster looks over her shoulder. Her jaw flexes and tightens seeing Nero front and center of the three of them but her voice stays even: “It is. We’re busy today.”  
  
An unnerving stillness falls over the street. Dante shifts on his weight, ready to spring into action the moment either the man or his guards make a single untoward move. The tension is palpable but Aster doesn’t falter as she stares him down. Her shoulders remain straight, her fists at her side. After what feels like an eternity of waiting for the worst, the strange man grins at Aster wide enough to make his eyes wrinkle at the corners. He sweeps his hand to his ribcage and bows low.  
  
“Then I shall take my leave. Have a lovely evening, Ms. Aster.”  
  
Lady lets out the breath she’s been holding as the entourage turns to walk away from the house. She slumps back onto her palms and glances over at Dante with eyebrows raised.  
  
“I told you this place is creepy.”  
  
Hard to deny that right now. He sits against the wall and gives Nero ample space to break away from them. The boy doesn’t look back as he runs for the stairs, presumably heading down to the ground level to check on Aster. That proves to be the case just a few seconds later, when her voice echoes up:  
  
“What’s got you so clingy? Everything’s fine, my love.”  
  
Both he and Lady break into a weak laugh. He can see it in his head because he already has a dozen times in the past: Nero clinging to his mom’s legs, face buried in her skirt, refusing to say what’s got him so scared but just as unwilling to let her go. It’s familiar. Nostalgic even. He glances over at his old friend with eyebrows raised, resting his arms on top of his knees. She sighs, tips her head to stare at the ceiling, and chuckles again.  
  
“Ah man. He loves his mom, huh?" His answer is a wan smile that she mirrors. That's how he knows she understands. "Guess it's not so bad you dragged me here then."  


 

\--

 

The attic bedroom is small.   
  
Someday it’ll be too small for a teenage boy but, yet again, that’s a problem for the distant future. Right now, its compactness lends to being cozy instead of claustrophobic. The walls are slate blue; the ceiling navy. Fairy lights strung along trim illuminate the tiny space, casting it in soft, twinkling light. There’s bookshelves - because of course there are in this household - but they’re lined with picture books or model trains or stuffed animals. The kind of thing that a five year old boy cares about. One of Aster’s storage trunks sits at the foot of a new bed, packed full with toys that used to cover the floor throughout the house. The dormer windows are still open to let the smell of fresh dried paint out and, in the process, allows the distant horn of the last boat off the island to drift in.  
  
Aster stares at the room with her gold eyes alight. It’s almost 10PM. She and Dante are both covered in paint and dust. Lady’s downstairs making coffee and Nero’s passed out on the couch, too exhausted to appreciate his new room until tomorrow. So the two of them stand side by side in the tiny space and survey their twelve hours of handiwork.  
  
He nudges her gently in the ribs with his elbow.  
  
“C’mon. You gotta say it. You gotta say ‘this was a good idea, Dante.’”  
  
“Don’t you know? I’ll melt if I have to admit you were right. It’s my only weakness.” She hums with pleased happiness and tilts her head this way. “But it wasn’t a _bad_ idea either.”  
  
“Heh. I’ll take it.”  
  
He lays his hand on her shoulder, gives it a slight squeeze. A way to let her know that he is genuinely satisfied with that answer. She pats the top of it but her gaze stays focused on the room in front of them. There’s something soft in her expression. Maybe melancholy? Nero has his own room now. That means Aster will go back to having her own bed and all the good and bad that comes with that. It has to make her a little sad. Her son isn’t a baby anymore.  
  
 _God, time’s flown._  
  
“C’mon. I think all these paint fumes are giving me brain rot,” he jokes, thumbing toward the ladder. “And Lady brought kahlua for coffee. Now that the kid’s passed out, we can par-”  
  
“Dante?”  
  
He expects her to say he needs to be quiet so she can enjoy the moment. Or maybe for her to roll her eyes at his typical immaturity. He expects their usual playful bickering, snark and riposte, and for her to follow him to sit with Lady in the kitchen and drink the entire bottle of liqueur.  
  
He doesn’t expect her arms to slip beneath his own, wrap around his back, and pull him close. Were he less thrown off by the action, he might startle in her hold. Her shoulders settle against his chest; her forehead rests on his collarbone. He flounders, forgetting what he’s supposed to do, until his common sense catches up with his brain. Nervous arms lift and loop around Aster’s far smaller frame. Once they’re in place, once he lets himself be comfortable in the moment, he holds on tight to his… whatever she is to him. His brother’s lover. His nephew’s mom. A sister. Kind of. He rests his chin on top of her head.  
  
“You okay, Aster?”  
  
“Thank you, Dante,” she mutters, muffled a bit by his paint splattered shirt. “For today and, uh… For a lot of things.”  
  
“I, uh-” All of the snappy comebacks in the world couldn’t save him now. His idiot brain can’t think of anything meaningful to say back. Once upon a time, he asked himself if he’d ever stop being so stupid and graceless. The answer was pretty obvious now. “Yeah. Yeah, I- Don’t worry about it.”  
  
He takes her very carefully by the shoulders and pulls her away just enough to see her face. There’s a faint veneer of pink on her cheeks. At least he isn’t the only one a million miles out of his comfort zone. It’s incredible how reassuring that is. He breaks into an unsteady laugh and pats the side of her head.  
  
“Really. Don’t worry about it. You’re family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, “pamcakes” is a Hellboy reference.


	8. Weekend Getaway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long. Resident Evil 2 is really good.

The sunlight streaming inside is agonizing. It easily cut through his windows and makes similar short work of his eyelids, piercing straight into his throbbing brain. His eye twitches open; focuses on the window. It’s beautiful outside. The sky is brilliant blue, the sun bright and warm, and he wants it dead. Dante rolls to the side and his “bed” ends abruptly, dropping him with a loud thud onto his shop floor. Somehow he passed out on his couch and forgot.

“Son of a…” he grumbles with his cheek on the hardwood floor. “Why do I do this to myself?”

The sound of his own voice makes his brain throb against the inside of his skull. His groan is long and muffled and does nothing to help. He also learns, as he tries to get up and fails, that his legs only kind of work. _That’s fine,_ he thinks. He can crawl over to the blinds.

“Dante, the hell’re you doin’...?” a slurred voice asks from his desk. He can’t exactly turn around to look and see, so he has to roll over onto his back. Lady’s balled up in his office chair and covered with his lone thrift store quilt. Her eyes are screwed shut tightly, as though that might save her from waking up to the monstrous hangover that’s already crippled him.

“M’killin’ the sunlight.”

“Well, can you do it quieter? I’m tryin’ to die in peace over here.” She tucks herself deeper into the chair - as best she can anyways - and yanks the blanket up over his head. Only after the fact, once his brain has focused, does he take note of the state of his desk. It’s covered in strange, eldritch looking liquor bottles with labels in languages he could not hope to understand. Some of it looks like the kind of thing Aster might translate and just as cursed.

 _Whatever happened to “never again,” idiot?_ His inner monologue is even more grating after a night of putting what he thinks is Literal Poison in his body. He mutters curses through his teeth and finally wills his legs to function. Slowly, laboriously, he staggers up to his feet and over to the pull cord for his shutters. They rattle loud enough to make his head throb as they fall to blanket his office in dim, muted light. _Good enough._

“Where’s Eryn?” he asks as he staggers to the couch. Lady makes an unhappy grumble from her blanket pile, clearly distressed that he’s still talking to her, but replies anyways:

“In your bed.”

“Oh hell ye-”

“Easy, cowboy. You passed out there and I wanted to keep drinking so he went upstairs once it got late. You didn’t conquer that mountain.”

His entire body deflates and he flops face down into his cushions with yet another forlorn moan. Lady’s response is to tuck deeper into herself and yank the blanket over her head. So much for sympathy from his friend. Part of him wants to check on his bartender. It would be completely innocent, nothing but one friend making sure the other hadn’t died in his sleep, but also he wouldn’t mind if the most beautiful man in the world invited him into a comfortable bed after a long night of chugging poison. Especially because it’s _his bed._ Instead he stays on his couch because he doesn’t quite trust his legs to handle stairs.

And then his phone rings, loud enough to be heard while he’s in the shower and thus way too loud for two people who are so hungover that they border on near-death.

“I fucking hate drinking at your place,” says Lady’s voice from somewhere under his quilt.

It rings again and rattles around inside Dante’s skull after the fact. He fumbles to his feet, as unhappy the second time as he was the first, and staggers to the phone with the grace of a newborn giraffe. The third ring elicits an unhappy gurgle from the bundle in his chair. He snatches the receiver up and drops to sit on his desk, rattling the myriad bottles.

“Devil May Cry. Call back when we’re op-”

 _“Do not tell me you just woke up, Dante."_ Aster’s voice comes through so sharp and clear that he’s convinced she’s somewhere in the room and can see the sorry state he’s in.

“No, no, I- uh-“ He coughs to clear his throat and one of Lady’s legs stick out to kick him in the rib cage for being too noisy. He slaps at her foot in response. “Hi. I’m awake. Been awake for hours. How are you? What’s going on? I’m fine.”

Lady peeks out from her blanket to squint. He mouths his not-sister-in-law’s name and her eyebrows quirk up. It was awful early for her to be calling. Actually, it was strange for her to be calling at all. Typically she rang him as a reminder that he was supposed to visit one weekend or another but he’d already planned his trip out.

_“I need to ask you a favor.”_

“That’s unexpected. You dying or some?” He hesitates, remembers that this phone call is out of the ordinary enough, and his entire face scrunches in on itself. “That was a joke. Please don’t say-”

 _“No, idiot. I’m fine.”_ The snicker that comes up from Lady is enough to make his ears burn. The thanks he gets for caring. _“I- uh - how do I explain... A client of mine needs me to do some translations but they’re too unwieldy to transport to Fortuna. Inscribed on marble walls, you know how those old shrines are.”_ He did not. Paying attention to that kind of thing on the job was Lady’s purview, not his. _“Anyways. I have to go into the field. And… I don’t have anyone to look after Nero-”_

“Miss Stella can’t do it?” He plucks one of the unholy looking bottles off his desk to squint down the neck, curious if they really did chug so much poison. There isn’t so much as a drop. It occurs to him that Aster’s long pause isn’t her not paying attention to his muttered question. It’s an awkward, uncomfortable silence.

_“Things are- They’re not available.”_

That doesn’t sound good. He wonders if they had some kind of argument, but he can’t imagine either Stella or Loreto ever so much as raising their voice, much less getting angry. He doesn’t press the matter, though. It’s easy to hear the tone shift in Aster’s voice when she doesn’t want to talk about something.

“Well, I don’t know any babysitters, Aster. And even if I did, they wouldn’t be in Fortuna.”

_“Are you really that dense or is your brain still pickled from drinking last night?”_

“Now who says I was drinking-”

_“I’m asking if you’ll keep Nero for a weekend, Dante.”_

He pulls the phone away from his ear to boggle at it as though Aster could see him. Briefly he wonders if this is a joke but “mocking prank” isn’t really in her repertoire of messing with him. He purses his lips, then brings it back up to his ear.

“You being serious?” Completely coincidentally, he eyeballs the bottles littering his office. The whole space was hardly what he’d consider “kid friendly.” He never planned to have kids in here ever if he could help it. But also his nephew was a special case.

 _“Of course I am. Look-”_ She flounders and drops her voice. _“If you can’t, then I understand. It won’t break the bank to turn the client down. I- It’d be nice to get off this island and do some work that isn’t for the Order.”_ In the year since she finished the grimoire, they came calling more often (though the strange guy with the stutter never returned). “ _And I trust you.”_

Even with a truly otherworldly hangover pulsing inside his skull, his chest swells up with pride. Yes, he’s aware that he is the _second_ person she considered after Stella, but the point is unchanged: she trusts him enough with Nero to ask. A grin pulls across his mouth that can’t be suppressed. The shop isn’t great for a six year old but weapons can be put in locked boxes and alcohol stored on a high shelf. There’s a spare bedroom, a TV, and a whole city of things way more interesting than Fortuna. It’d do the kid some good to see a world beyond that island.

“When do you need me?"

_“Next week?”_

“Hell yeah. See you then.”

\--

Rebellion is the last weapon to get locked away and it’s the one he apologizes to. Shutting his sword up in a tiny closet for a weekend feels wrong in a way he can’t quite explain. Maybe because the old broadsword feels so much like an extension of himself and he knows how miserable he’d be in a cramped, dark box. But it was the single thing Aster asked of him - put the weapons away so she wouldn’t spend her business trip fretting her son would lop an arm off.

“You know, you didn’t strike me as the type to be so… eager to babysit,” drones a gruff voice behind him. Dante shuts and locks his storage closet, turning to look at his bartender in the midst of sweeping. There isn’t enough willpower in all the world to stop his shame at the small mountain of dust accumulating in the pan. He knew asking Lady and Eryn to help him clean would make him look like a slob but he underestimated how truly filthy the shop was. Lady had already left for the day to handle a job, leaving only his bartender to see the mess. The bad impressions had to be adding up. “Especially when this place is such a dump.”

“Easy. I don’t call your bar a dump.”

“Yes, you do?” Eryn squints at him from behind a curl of dark hair. “All of the time.” Which wasn’t wrong, but Dante was really hoping he wouldn’t remember.

“Look, whatever, that’s not the point-” An impish grin cracks across his mouth in response to the other man rolling his eyes. He leans against the closet door, glancing away from Eryn, studying a spot on his wall where Lady taped up the peeling wallpaper. “It’s... y’know-” An absent hand itches along his jaw. “He’s my brother’s kid. Family.”

A slight laugh slips out of the other man. “You don’t gotta justify yourself to me.” He stops sweeping to rest his palms on top of the broom, chin on his hands, and studies Dante with curious eyes wrinkled at the corners in thought. “Hm… I just realized - I think that’s the first time you’ve mentioned your brother in months. Maybe since last year?”

Such an innocent statement hits Dante like a lead weight in the gut. Time shifts sideways as he takes it in and wonders the last time he thought about his twin concretely. Of course Vergil’s absence was always palpable in Fortuna, the gap where three people should be four, but that wasn’t the same thing as really thinking of him. He never came up in conversations anymore. Aster didn’t talk about him. More of Dante’s weight sinks downward.

When had he gotten used to his being gone?

“Sorry.” The apology catches his attention and his eyes refocus on his bartender, who’s smile has turned strained. Hot embarrassment from how obvious his distress is flairs in Dante’s gut and across his face.  “I shouldn’t have said that-”

A bell rattles as the shop’s door is flung open, cutting off their conversation, granting Dante a reprieve. He swings his attention from Eryn to the door just in time to see a familiar tiny figure come rushing in with the usual crackling energy. He kneels, opens his arms, and braces himself for Nero’s weight to crash into his own. Skinny arms fling around his neck and squeeze tight as Dante hoists him up. He holds him close, maybe closer than usual, and smiles at the kid breaking into an ecstatic giggle.

“Uncle Dante! I rode on the paddleboat! Across the water!” His words come out frantic and excited and he leans away to look at his uncle. Big eyes are glittering and his smile lights up his entire face. The enthusiasm must be contagious because he can hear his bartender laugh quietly behind them. “And on a bus! And- and-”

“Woah, woah, take a breath, little bit. Where’s your mom?”

With perfect timing, the bell over his door sounds again and the woman in question strides inside. Trendy as always, she’s in the usual black - though the fashionable look is disrupted by the brightly colored boys’ backpack thrown over one shoulder. Her hair continues to be perfect indicator of her mood, frazzling out from its braid with ends twitching. Traveling with an excitable six year old can’t be an _easy_ trip. But she smiles at him when they make eye contact and he pops a lazy salute.

“There’s my favorite girl. How you holdin’ up?”

“Been up since six.”

“Oof. Better you than me.”

“Dante, I don’t think you know what six in the morning looks like,” she retorts as she wanders into the shop, eyes sweeping over the old office before settling on Eryn. He’s still leaning on his broom with a fond grin pulled across his lips and waves with the tips of his fingers. “Oh. Sorry, I… didn’t even notice you.”

“No worries. Six AM, right?” She laughs sheepishly in response. “I guess you’re the not-sister-in-law. Nice to finally put a face to the title.” And Dante whips around to give him a wild eyed look, as though that might make him un-say that. “Was I not supposed to tell her about that?”

**“No, you were not.”**

“My bad.” He doesn’t seem very sorry. If anything, watching Dante squirm seems to put him in a better mood. His smile is infuriatingly carefree and handsome as he puts the broom to the side to extend a hand for Aster to shake. “Well, I’m Eryn. Please don’t kill one of my favorite customers because of a slightly gauche nickname."

Dante wonders if he could parlay being a “favorite” into dinner.

“It wouldn’t take if I tried,” she replies and it earns her a sharp, amused laugh from the older man. “Customer?” It feels like a larger pall of doom hangs over Dante’s head, enough for Nero to seemingly to notice and tilt his head.

“At the bar up the road - Bullseye.” There it is. “You should come have a drink with us sometime.” That seems to bring a thought to Eryn’s mind. He spares a quick look at the watch on his wrist and huffs. “Ah hell. In fact, I should have been there twenty minutes ago.” Most of the time, Dante would want him to stay because he has yet to tire of looking at the man, but right now all Eryn has done is dug a grave for him to lie in. He’d punt him out the door himself if he weren’t holding a kid.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Aster. Later, Dante. Your cute nephew _is_ pretty cute.”

And now he’s lost Nero’s support too. The boy’s whole face goes deep red as Eryn saunters out the door with his hands behind his head, whistling as he goes.

“Stop tellin’ people I’m cute!”

“What does ‘not-sister-in-law’ even _mean?_ ”

Aster sighs as she puts her son’s travel bag on the desk and likewise Dante puts her son on his feet to explore the new space. He doesn’t fail to notice her eyes flicker over to the framed picture on his desk. Her expression softens as she absorbs it. No questions are asked about the woman’s identity so he assumes that Vergil told her, as unbelievable as that sounds. Maybe he’ll get used to thinking about that version of his twin some day.

“Please don’t feed him exclusively pizza while I’m gone.”

“What? You’re really cramping my attempt to be the Cool Uncle,” he says, smirking as he sits on his desk. Nero’s studying his always-kinda-broken jukebox, pressing at the buttons to see what will happen. There’s no surprise when it gets stuck in the middle of changing tracks. Then Aster heaves a frustrated sigh. Right, she’s stressed. “We’ll do good. I promise. Eat a salad just for you.”

“Ew, do we gotta?” Nero chimes in and wrinkles his nose.

His mother rolls her eyes. “You should consider doing that for _yourself_ sometime,” she muses as she unpacks the bag in her lap. She doesn’t need to since all that stuff will end up in Dante’s spare room, but her hands are working on their own. Keeping busy so she doesn’t fuss and wring at them. He realizes this will be her first extended time away from Nero. Ever. “There’s a phone number for my hotel in here and-”

His hand drops onto her shoulder and she looks up at him with creased brow and pursed lips. Protecting Nero has always been her highest priority and there’s no way it’s easy to leave him in a city neither of them know. But he also knows that she needs to get out of mom mode, even if only for a weekend. So he laughs and squeezes his hand.

“Hey. Stop worrying so much.”

“Am I that obvious?” His response is a simple lift of his eyebrows. “I feel like a bad mom. And...” The words trail off and she watches Nero as he keeps fiddling with the jukebox. Her attention is unfocused, her fingers still twiddling, and now he knows something else is going on. The anxiety is radiating off her in waves. It makes his nerves itch. “Sorry. Sorry. A lot on my mind.”

“You… wanna talk about it…?” he ventures but receives no answer. He wonders if he shouldn’t have asked, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She folds and unfolds the powder blue t-shirt in her lap, before shaking her head.

“Maybe when I get back,” she says. It isn’t resolved, but prying would make her clam up. It will have to do. Aster finally puts her son’s things aside and coughs softly to get his attention. The boy looks up from tugging at the panels of his jukebox and Dante wonders if the kid would dismantle it if left unattended. Aster’s smile turns soft, achingly so, always pleased with his curiosity toward mechanical things. “Mom’s gotta go, my love.”

“Wh-”

Narrow shoulders go tense and his jaw locks up. The frantic thoughts running through his nephew’s brain are almost visible behind his eyes. Staying with Uncle Dante, he’s realizing, means not having mom nearby. Nero doesn’t hesitate to close the gap between him and his mother, wrapping his arms around her neck, burying his face into her crimson braid. Aster sinks into his embrace with a long sigh and rocks him back and forth ever-so-slightly. She turns her head and murmurs words Dante can’t make out into the boy’s ear. A small whine goes up.

He hasn’t thought about his brother in months. It’s been longer than that for his mother. Now the most god-awful expanse is opening in his chest. Bitter nostalgia wells up in him, threatening to spill out, and he has to glance away from the sight just to keep his usual veneer of cool.

“You can stick around longer, if you want,” he offers. In the corner of his eye, he can see Aster kiss her son’s forehead.

“I have to catch my train.” Very gently, she coaxes Nero’s arms away from her neck and squeezes both of his hands in her own. He’s doing his best to look strong - blinking away tears, pursing his lips tight so they don’t quiver. Aster thumbs scrubs across his cheek. “You’ll have fun and I’ll be back before you know it. Okay?”

“...okay…”

“I love you.”

“Mmh. Love you too.”

It takes another fifteen minutes for Aster to leave. Between checking, double checking, and triple checking that Dante has her hotel number and the simple agony of getting in the taxi once it arrives, Nero gets a while longer to cling to his mother. When she does finally go, he doesn’t cry. Or he says he doesn’t. Dante catches him scrubbing at his eye with the heel of his palm and knows not to remark on it. Instead he carries on for the rest of the night as if everything is fine. Eventually Nero goes along with it too. Dante hunts down the tapes he got on his first (and maybe last) trip to the city library, lugs his tv downstairs, and finds his nephew’s pajamas.

Despite his promise to Aster, they order pizza for the first night and watch tape after tape of dumb action cartoons Nero’s never heard of and is immediately obsessed with. Apparently the programming on Fortuna is lacking, to say the least. They go through as many as they can and at some point, Dante realizes his nephew’s passed out in the crook of his arm. Contentment has replaced his earlier anxiety. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he shifts to bury deeper into his uncle’s side. Waking him to put him in an unfamiliar bed would be cruel.

Dante consigns himself to another night on the couch.

\--

“So… where’re we goin’?” Nero asks with his voice muffled by the dark blue hoodie he’s pulling on. His head pops out of the neck a moment later and soft white hair sticks out in every direction from the static. A scowl twists up his expression when he realizes it. He pats and smooths at his hair as Dante digs through his desk.

“Where’d I put those dammmm-dang. Dang keys.” If Nero went home repeating any of the despicable crap he said in the shop, Aster would skin him seven times over. “Anyways it’s a surprise. You’re gonna dig it though. And then I figure we could go eat with Lady and Eryn- AHA!” He snatches his car keys up from where they fell on the floor. One day he’s going to buy that keyhook. Or maybe convert a demon trophy?

“Aw, what? C’mon, tell meee.”

That whiny note in his voice has no effect on Dante after six years. He hums and snatches his own jacket off his coat rack, swinging it on with the usual flourish - whipping it around his body as he slips his arms into the sleeves, popping the collar up, and looking to see if Nero is impressed.

He is not. He’s staring at his uncle with a blank expression and pursed lips.

“How is your mom _raising_ you.”

“Just tell me where we’re goin’!” Nero barks back, flailing an indignant fist over his head. The only thing he gets is ignored as Dante starts for the door. “UUUUGH.” Little feet stomp on the floors and follow him out into the afternoon sunlight.

His consternation is short lived, forgotten at the sight of the cherry red convertible parked in the alley. Nero’s jaw drops and he scrambles past his uncle to run excited circles around the car to inspect every detail. There’s no doubt in his mind that his nephew knows the make and model at a glance. Dante would pop the hood for him if he didn’t think the kid would try to crawl into the engine block.

“Are we gonna take this?!”

“Yep.”

“With the hood down?!”

The response he gets is a broad grin and the boy brightens even more. He promised Aster that they wouldn’t go anywhere on his motorcycle but the convertible is fair game. Once they’re actually in the car, it’s more of the same - Nero curiously looking around, peeking into the backseat, examining the vintage dashboard and stereo, and grimacing at the heavy metal that comes blaring out of the speakers upon Dante cranking the car. Both pointedly ignore the slight rattle somewhere deep inside the engine.

“One more thing,” Dante says, fumbling in the console between them, before retrieving a pair of mirrored aviators. He has no idea where they came from. Maybe Eryn? They’re not his or Lady’s style. Either way, he places them over his nephew’s eyes and the boy has the good sense to shoot him a pair of finger guns. _“Extremely_ cool. Let’s ride.”

Part of the ride is spent fussing over music because Nero hates his. What kind of six year old has discerning tastes? That was his mom’s fault, same as his style deficiency, and Dante makes mental notes to remind her of that. Otherwise, he asks about the car or about the city itself.

Fortuna is a backwater hamlet in compared to Capulet City. He’s never seen high-rises in person, nor chirping arcades or movie theaters or big department stores. They’re in pictures in his mom’s books but the real thing is always better. Dante’s sure the kid would try to lean all the way out of the car if he weren’t belted into his seat. So he opts to keep his chin propped up on the door the whole time they drive, watching the bustling city roll by as they go.

“Who’re they?” he blurts out as they sit at a red light. Dante follows his eyeline to a group of kids, early teens maybe, waiting at the crosswalk down the road. They’re laughing, cutting up, talking amongst themselves the way any group of high schoolers would. The whole group is dressed in the same matching plaid skirt or pants and blue blazers. “That’s a uniform.”

“Huh… Yeah, guess you would know about that, wouldn’t ya?” The light changes and Dante pulls the car forward. As they glide past the group of students, a few girls notice they’re the center of Nero’s attention. All of them break into delighted giggles and wave at the cute kid staring. He returns the wave even as the tips of his ears turn bright pink. “There’s a high school around here. Falstaff Academy, I think. They’re probably headin’ back from lunch.”

“...school…”

He knew Aster had started homeschooling Nero. There’s no other option when every school on the island is run by the Order. And he knows she’s a fine teacher, probably one of the best, but there is more to school than just books. At least Dante thinks there is. He hadn’t been in a school since he was fifteen. That doesn’t change the fact that he understands every inch of longing on Nero’s face as they drive off from the teenagers. As they pull away, the boy turns to watch them, chin pressed into the headrest of the passenger seat, brows stitched together in a too-familiar scowl.

“D’you wanna go to school?”

“Kyrie goes. She told me it’s fun.”

How much fun could an elementary class run by a demon-worshipping cult really be, he wonders. Though Kyrie did have the distinct ability to find joy in nearly anything. He turns them down another road and the school kids vanish from sight.

“So you wanna go to school with Kyrie?” he asks with raised eyebrows and a broad grin. Nero’s head whips over to look at him, wide eyed, cheeks red, and slaps his uncle’s arm as hard as he possibly can.

“Shut up!”

It doesn’t take much longer to reach their destination. A massive, alabaster building looms over their heads. The walls are gated and lined with white columns. Above the entrance is a huge clock bordered on either side by a sculpted facade of a lion and unicorn fighting over a crown. People are streaming in and out of the building, more people congregated than Nero’s ever seen in his life. It makes the yearly art festival look like a small community get-together. Finding parking is a nightmare but eventually they’re out on the sidewalk and walking hand-in-hand to the “surprise.”

“What’s this place?”

“You’ll see in a minute.”

The inside is equally grandiose. High arched ceilings makes the chatter around them echo and daylight pours in from a huge glass dome at the center. There are vendors lining a wall, hawking food “for the trip” or books or new headphones, too overpriced for Dante’s blood. And people, so many people of all kinds, mill about or rush by in a hurry. There isn’t an Order hood in sight. Some stare at split-flap display for arrivals and departures listing other cities. Every minute or two, they all flip at once in a chorus of tick-tick-ticks.

“Woah…” Nero’s taking it in with dumbfounded shock. His grip on Dante’s hand is vice-tight, suddenly aware that he could easily become lost for literally the rest of his life in a sea of people this vast. Or at least for an hour or two.

“C’mon, this isn’t the cool part.”

“There’s a cooler part?”

As an answer, Dante tugs on his hand, leading him away from the main terminal and up some stairs tucked off to the side. They ascend one, then two flights and emerge in a waiting lounge lined with uncomfortable looking plastic chairs. Unlike the main terminal, it looks completely mundane save for a back wall made entirely out of glass. A few people lean against it to gaze down on something Nero can’t see.

“Go check it out.”

Blue eyes flicker back and forth between his uncle and what seems to be the entire point of this trip. He scans Dante’s face, trying to find some hint that it’s a joke or a prank, only to get a perfectly benign smile in return. So hesitantly Nero slips his hand out of his uncle’s but remains unsure about separating himself in such an unfamiliar place. It’s only after Dante nods to the window again that he coaxes himself forward through the room. No one pays them any mind. It’s a welcome change from people in Fortuna always boggling at his and Nero’s hair.

“OH!”

Confusion is replaced by excitement as soon as his attention falls on what the waiting room overlooks. Row after row of passenger trains are lined up at boarding platforms beneath them. Some are new and sleek, made out of the same matte steel as an Airstream trailer, and others are older, classic bodies that look like the toys on his shelves at home. A wide, dopey smile spreads across Nero’s mouth as one starts to move and Dante leans against the window to watch. Nothing like this exists in Fortuna. He’s realizing there’s a lot of things Fortuna doesn’t have. Skyscrapers, trains, schools… and streets where Nero can walk and go unremarked on.

“This is so cool…” the boy mutters. His nose is shoved against the glass as though that would let him get a better view. “Can we go down there?”

“Sure. Just thought you’d want a bird’s eye view of the whole station first.”

Another engine, bright red and the most toylike, starts to chug forward. It lets off a whistle loud enough to be heard from any part of the station and he does a small bounce on his heels. For Dante, watching the reaction it elicits from his nephew is world’s more fun than watching the machines themselves. Memories of their trips to the docks in Fortuna come to mind but even then he didn’t seem to burst with as much delighted energy as he is now.

“Hey, Uncle Dante.”

“Hm?”

“Did my dad like this kinda stuff?”

The sudden question comes out careful but inquisitive, the tone he always takes when trying to parse out the world. Why wouldn’t it? The subject isn’t taboo at home. Vergil’s name isn’t banned; Aster merely chooses not to bring him up. Sparing _herself_ the hurt that comes with talking about him. Right now he’d kill for that kind of luxury. His eyes turn to watch the crowds of people coming and going from their trains, wishing they were down there, inspecting the engines the way Nero marveled at his car.

A sentence starts, then stops, and tries again in Dante’s mouth: “He- uh- N-nah.” Nero’s attention is locked on him now. His jaw tightens and forces a sheepish smile. “Nah, that’s all you, buddy.”

Another whistle sounds. A couple standing near them push away from the window and walk toward the stairs arm-in-arm. They both watch them go in silence. Dante manages to catch the woman saying she wants “a kid that cute.” That part slips by Nero.

“Did he like fighting? The way you do?”

Did he _like_ it? What a gulf between doing and enjoying. He’s pretty sure his brother took joy from it. There was always a smirk on his lips every time they fought. Even at the end, with the world collapsing behind him, Dante would catch a gleam, a spark. The corner of his mouth twitching upward as they exchanged blows. The importance of that fight never lost but there was something else too. Excitement maybe. Though it’s not like he could ask Vergil.

“I think so.”

Thank god for the blissful ignorance of small children. Nero doesn’t remark on the quiet note in Dante’s voice. All he does is press his forehead against the glass. If the scowl twisting up his face is any indicator, there’s a lot of thoughts going through his nephew’s mind as well.

“You wanna ask me about him?”

Might as well give Nero permission to open the floodgates now that the topic was out in the open. If not from Aster, then it should come from him. Clear blue eyes tilt upward to look at Dante, giving the impression somewhat of a nervous puppy. Studying him as he tries to think of what to say, he assumes. Dante waits, expecting the inevitable onslaught of questions that have to be boiling inside the boy.

“I dunno.” The tension in Dante’s chest fizzles. He sinks downward along the glass until he’s sitting on the floor beside his nephew. Nero fiddles with the pull string of his hoodie, tugging and wrapping it around his fingers.  “Sometimes mom gets really sad ‘cause’ve him...” 

Should have known. Aster keeps it buried, hidden between the pages of her notebooks or locked away in a trunk somewhere, but her loneliness follows her like a shadow. Sometimes he’ll catch glimpses of it. Standing by herself in her study, eyes locked on the window, and the emptiness in them is so vast that the heat drains from the room. For all of her doting and fussing, Nero is too perceptive to not notice. He just didn’t expect it to be this early.

“So I… He kinda… makes me mad.”

The last thing Nero expects is for Dante to laugh weakly. He looks at his uncle with lips pursed, hands balled up in front of his chest, afraid that he may have said something wrong. Not sure how to react. But laughing is the only thing Dante can do because it is funny in a macabre sort of way. No one else gets that complex feeling better than him. The frustration of wanting to know things that will always stay a secret and the ever-growing anger at Vergil for leaving, at himself for wasting so much energy on this in the first place. At the way it left everything in disarray.

“I understand.”

“...you do?”

His hand reaches up to lay on top of his nephew’s head, tousling his featherlight hair, and Nero’s nose scrunches up. He shoves his uncle’s hand away, but keeps his fingers clutching at his thumb afterward. A broad smile pulls across Dante’s mouth. One day, he’ll explain everything. When the kid might grasp the idea of a murderous sibling rivalry, he’ll tell the whole story. Right now, it’s nice to know their feelings for his brother are mutually complicated.

“Hey, you wanna go look at the trains up close?”

And Nero nods.

\--

They get sushi with Eryn and Lady a few hours later at some tiny Japanese place near the station. Lady takes a special kind of glee in watching an uncoordinated six year old trying to manage chopsticks, moreso when he gives up the ghost and stabs it through his rainbow roll like a knife. She’s laughing the whole time he tries to keep it from falling apart before resorting to sticking his open mouth beneath his food.

“Pretty impressed a little kid would eat this kinda thing,” Eryn muses behind his sake. “Most balk if you tell them it’s raw fish.”

“How do _you_ know?” Lady retorts, eyebrow raised.

“You do know I have a life and family outside of the bar, right? I don’t live for you two maniacs,” comes the instant response, paired with narrowed eyes. She kicks him under the table as a retort. “Ow… So violent…”

Completely oblivious to the bickering, Nero bobbles with pride. He swallows the whole roll in one gulp (and Dante realizes he shouldn’t have let him attempt that _after_ the fact) and beams at his uncle’s idiot friends. “I’ve had raw fish before! There’s a bunch of seafood where I live. Mom and I eat at lots of places with weird food.”

“Cultured kid. Already doing better than you, Dante.”

“I know what I’m about, Lady. Pizza is perfectly healthy - it covers the important food groups, tastes great hot or cold, and goes well with coffee. It’s efficient.” He jabs his chopsticks at her to punctuate his words, only for Eryn to reach out and take the tempura shrimp out from between them. “Hey!”

“‘Ou werh offerin’,” he replies, voice muffled by Dante’s food.

At least Nero thinks it’s funny. He laughs at their back-and-forth and sits up more on the bench-seating. His chin juts out further in an attempt to look as grown-up as the adults. Nevermind the crayons and coloring pages the old woman who runs the place gave him. It’s cute, though they know that word is verboten. He tries to make himself look bigger and stronger when he plays with Kyrie too.

“Oh, right.” A thought occurs to him as his nephew’s best friend crosses his mind. “Hey, kiddo, did your mom say why Miss Stella couldn’t watch you? I mean, she’s usually free, right?”

His curiosity kills the mood pretty quickly. Nero’s shoulders droop and he becomes intently focused on the blob of wasabi at the corner of his plate. The three adults come closer with matching expressions of concern on their faces. Uncomfortable seconds tick by in silence broken only by tinny Japanese folk music playing over broken speakers.

“Mrs. Stella and Captain Loreto’ve been actin’... weird…” he mutters, voice subdued to the point that the trio has to lean in further. “They don’t come with Kyrie to the park anymore - just Credo - and it makes her really sad and… and when we do see them, they’re real quiet. Like they’re mad or somethin’.” He bites on the corner of his lip and shrinks into himself. “I dunno why. They’re really different.”

“Do you think it’s something bad?”

Small shoulders tense and he looks up at Dante with brows creased, as though it was something he never considered until that moment. As he processes the idea, his frown deepens. He looks at his hands, twiddling mindlessly with his chopsticks, and tightens his mouth. “...Maybe…? Mom says they’re just busy but…”

His nephew is too smart to accept a white lie told to keep him from worrying. It’d make Aster proud to know she’d taught him so well if she weren’t the one doing the placating. This had to be what was weighing on her the night before. Why was she hiding it from him?

He has no idea what to say to Nero to ease any of his troubles, either. The only thing he can do is offer to buy him red bean ice cream, which somehow ends in him paying for everyone’s. The argument that ensues makes for a good distraction though. Soon his nephew is laughing again, happy to hang out with a group of (alleged) grown ups, his troubles out of mind for at least a little while.

Though he’s quiet on the way home. After their goodbyes - Lady sweeping Nero off his feet in a hug, Dante hanging onto Eryn for maybe a little longer than normal - the drive home is quiet, almost peaceful. The music drifting through the radio is something old and the city itself is uncharacteristically tranquil for a Friday night. No shouting drunks stumbling out of dives, no loud fights in alleys or shrieking demons somewhere in the distance. Nero watches the blinking marquees and glowing neon roll by with curiosity subdued by exhaustion. Their busy day is catching up to him and it’s obvious every time his little head bobs up and down as he tries to fight off sleep. By the time they reach the shop, he’s curled up in the passenger seat, so deep in sleep that he doesn’t hear the car shut off.

Carefully, Dante hoists him into his arms - eliciting the smallest of grumbles from the sleeping child - and carries him inside, up to the spare bedroom. Though he’s never had kids in his shop before now, his time visiting Fortuna has been good practice. This part is endlessly familiar, second nature. He knows exactly how to walk lightly and ease his nephew onto the bed to make sure he doesn’t wake. Nero murmurs that he isn’t tired before he’s out again. Then it’s just a matter of easing his shoes off and dropping the quilt on top of him.

“Night, kiddo.”

No response. Dante stands there in the evening stillness with his eyes locked on the six year old in front of him. White eyelashes twitch occasionally in dreaming but otherwise he is still and peaceful, as comfortable here as he is in his own home. The food, the company, the tranquility of the night should be enough to convince him to go downstairs, drink a little whiskey, and relax in front of a bad action movie. Then his mind goes to the thought of his nephew, sunk into himself and timid, troubled by something he couldn’t articulate.

So what he does instead is head to his desk, grabs his phone, and dials the number Aster gave him the day before. It rings twice and halfway through the third, someone picks up.

 _“Hello?”_ Aster’s voice isn’t as clear as the day before. It’s groggy, thick in the way all voices sound when someone comes back from the verge of sleep. _“Mngh, this is Aster.”_

“Sorry, did I wake you up?” he asks, sinking into his chair and putting his feet up.

 _“Wh- oh! Dante! I was… resting a bit?”_ A small laugh slips out of her. _“Sorry. What’s up? Is everything okay?”_

“Oh yeah. We’re gravy over here. Just checkin’ in, is all. How’s the work?”

 _“It’s been great. Whole house built on top of a sunken shrine. It might predate the Rebellion.”_ As in, his old man’s war. Strange to think that Aster knew about all of that long before she ever knew him or his brother. Even after all these years, he forgets that his father was someone important. _“I brought that instant camera with me, so I actually have pictures for once- well, okay. A few. The energies in the oldest parts of the shrine blurred the photos.”_ Then she hesitates and her voice softens, gets more wistful: _“More homesick than I expected. I miss my kid. He’s way more fun than the old fogies paying me.”_

A weak smile pulls across his mouth. “You’re coming back tomorrow, right? He’ll have plenty of stories for you.” Going off her warm, pleased hum alone, he knows she’s excited. That bitter ache from the day before returns. “So… hey. Uh- I asked Nero about Stella and-”

 _“You what?”_ Her voice changes like the flip of a switch, turning sharp and aware, putting Dante more on edge than he already was. _“Why would you ask him that?”_

“Why would I- Aster, you know it’s weird for them to-”

 _“Dante, he doesn’t know anything about it. He’s_ **_six.”_ **

“It’s bugging him. He misses Kyrie.”

There’s a long sigh on the other end of the line and Dante scowls up at his ceiling. He feels like he’s being scolded for some reason. _“You think I don’t know? There’s nothing I can do. If they don’t want to talk to us, then they don’t want to talk to us. I’m trying to make Nero okay with it and it’s not your-”_ She stammers on the other end of the line, fumbling her words as her anger rises. _“-your job to put that on him.”_

“But it could be something serious. They’re still part of the Order, they still hate demons, and _Nero_ is still-”

_“The only thing he should be thinking about is … playing with trains an-and getting better at reading. Not whether his best friend's mom and dad want to hurt him. If something is genuinely wrong, then I can handle it but… but it shouldn’t be his problem.”_

The memory of his mother pacing the halls of their home after his father disappeared elbows its way unbidden into his mind. If he or Vergil ever asked if she was okay, she’d smile. Tell them everything was fine, to not worry. For a while, he believed her because he didn’t think she could lie. Eventually Vergil picked up on it or maybe he always sensed it. Either way, once he told Dante, the air in their house changed. Tension strained every floorboard and radiated from the walls. Relief only came in bursts of levity - playing out in the woods behind the house, taking trips as just the three of them. Birthdays... for a while.

But that sense that mom knew something was wrong and wasn’t telling them never really went away until… Until the end.

“He needs to know-"

 _“No! He doesn’t!”_ Aster’s voice climbs another decibel, catching him off guard. Neither speak for what feels like hours. Dante’s sitting up now, fixating on a scratched spot on his floor like he could stare a hole into it. Internally he fumbles for what to say but she beats him to it: _“He’s a little boy, Dante. That’s_ **_all_ ** _he needs to be. Okay? Now… drop it.”_

“...fine.”

_“I’ll see you tomorrow.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DMC5 comes out in six days. I’ll see you all on the other side!


	9. Empty Spaces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please thank Itsuno-san for not obliterating my fic. (Also hey DMC5 was pretty good right?)

The sign hanging in the window of the old grocery store was written by hand on a piece of posterboard. The first word, penned with a thick red marker, takes up the majority of the space:

 **_CLOSED  
_ ** _After 25 years!  
_ _Thank you for your support and thank the Order for  
_ _shutting us down. We hope them and their Savior rot!_

It’s strange how much a few lines of text can inspire such dread deep inside Dante. He reads it again, as if that will change them, but the lights are still off and the door still locked. Beyond the windows, he can see shelves stocked with food and bottles of wine. Those tacky souvenir hats the cashier girl always tried to weedle him into buying hang undisturbed on a rack. There’s something disquieting about the scene - like the owners and employees vanished in the middle of a workday. Not gone, not on a lunch break, but disappeared into the ether.  
  
“We should take the candy,” his nephew grumbles next to him and pushes on the door to see if it will give. It does not. A smile cracks across his face despite his unease. He reaches down and gently pats the top of the seven year old’s hair.  
  
“They probably took that with ‘em.” He lies, knowing that if he didn’t, Nero really would try to break in at some point. The boy huffs and turns to lean against the door, shoving his hands into his shorts’ pockets. “C’mon. Guess we gotta go to the other one.”  
  
“Ughhhhh! But that’s all the way on the other side of the district.”  
  
Above them, the sky rumbles and the pair lift their heads to study the dark clouds rolling across the sky. Dante itches at his neck. The boy’s mom sent them out on errands while she’s elbow deep in her work and returning with nothing was not an option, especially not when the coffee was gone and her deadline drew ever closer. He’s almost tempted to say they make the hike to spare themselves. Then looming thunder resounds again.  
  
“Alright, fine. We’ll just stop at the bodega or something.”  
  
“Can we get Chinese for dinner?” His face does its best to go as innocent and doe-ish as possible to make himself look cute and vulnerable.  
  
“Are you buyin’?”  
  
“Uncle Dante, I don’t have any money!” Nero huffs and smacks his thigh hard enough to make it sting a bit. His nephew has one hell of an arm on him. Shame the island didn’t have a little league team. “Pleeeease? It’d make _mom_ real happy too!”  
  
“Oh, that’s cheating.” A broad smirk takes over cherubic features. He’s quite aware of what he’s doing because he knows how well it works. They turn down another cramped road, Dante casually maneuvering the boy onto the inner side of the sidewalk as a truck trundles by. Nero keeps his fingers wrapped around his uncle’s thumb as they walk, swinging their arms back and forth. “All right, all right. I’m keeping the egg rolls to myself though.”  
  
During the walk, he can’t help but notice the change sweeping the old district. It’s more than the grocer - so many of the small stands under apartments have shuttered, windows darkened on both levels with lonely signs advertising the lease hung on the doors. The cafes aren’t as crowded and the ever present music drifting from a balcony or restaurant is muted to a few scant notes drifting on the wind. A few places had shut down the last time he’d been on the island two or three months ago, but now he’s sure it’s happening more and more.  
  
“Mom says a lot of stuff’s closed down.” Perceptive as always, Nero’s obviously noticed the shift in his attention. His grip tightens on Dante’s thumb and he looks up and down the quiet streets. Even with rain threatening, there should be more people than the sparse numbers rushing to get home. “Somethin’ about the Order changing rules? So people’re moving away.”  
  
“First I’m hearin’ of it…”  
  
A damp, cool breeze drifts down the street, rustling their clothes, carrying the smell of salt water, approaching rain, and (most importantly) fried food with it. For a moment, their fretting is replaced by the growl of their stomachs - Nero loudest of the two. He breaks from his uncle to run ahead, leaving Dante to swear under his breath and scramble behind. There isn’t much he can do about changing times or the weirdness of the island when he has to focus on feeding a seven year old.  
  
The rain finally hits just as they get their food. With no umbrella between them, Dante shrugs his coat off and drops it onto Nero. It’s so big that it covers the boy’s entire frame and momentarily staggers him from the weight of the leather. There’s a bit of blind flailing, turning Nero into a squirming bundle of deep red, before his head pops out from beneath.  
  
“Stop messin’ with me!”  
  
“I’m not! I’m being a good uncle. Now you’ll stay dry.” Dante retorts with a wide smirk. Nero punts him in the ankle. “Ow… Why’s everyone I know beat me up?”  
  
At least it isn’t pouring yet. It’s the usual summer rain in Fortuna, falling gentle and serene as the light in the gray sky dims. Occasionally more distant thunder will echo far off over the ocean, louder now, but never close enough to make them worry. Nero’s laughing as he runs a few feet ahead of Dante with now-soaked coattails flapping behind him. He’s safe from the rain and bone dry while his uncle accepts that he’s going to be drenched. There’s a change of clothes at the house, he tells himself, and a shower and a comfortable-enough couch for sleeping. He grins as they walk, watching his nephew vault puddles, swinging his coat around like a cape. It isn’t so bad. The rain feels good after a day of island heat.  
  
Of course, the owner of the corner bodega near the house isn’t pleased with how much water the pair track in, but forgives them when they buy more than the usual junk food. It’s hard not to be charmed by a spritely kid waving his arms, trying to show off his cool new digs. They still apologize for the mess when they leave, carting stuffed brown bags that do include _some_ junk food. Nero keeps trying to reach into one to eat something and Dante has to swat him away from it.  
  
“We just bought dinner!”  
  
“I’m hungry _now!”_  
  
“Well, you gotta wait, you little goblin.”  
  
Nero responds by sticking his tongue out and Dante returns the favor. They keep that up the whole rain-drenched walk down the alley, persisting past the point of ridiculousness so that it slowly builds up into the pair of them laughing. By the time they stumble into Aster’s shop, they’ve both devolved into a fit of snickering that only stops once they realize the woman herself is standing at her counter, frozen in the middle of hunting for something to gawk.  
  
“Where on earth have you two been? You’re both _soaked!”_  
  
“We got Chinese!” Nero chirps, hoisting the cardboard box loaded with their food up over his head. Aster’s already come out from behind the counter to take it from him. “And Uncle Dante let me wear his cool coat! I want one!” With his arms free, he can stick them out to the side so he can spin around and show off. It mostly just flings more water everywhere.  
  
“I see that,” Aster replies, the corners of her lips tugging wryly upward. “You look very cool.” Then she looks up at Dante, whose hair is completely flat against his skull and hanging in his eyes and who immediately puts on his dopiest possible smirk for her. To his endless delight, she breaks more, covering her mouth to hide her quiet laugh. “And you look like a drowned rat.”  
  
“Man, I was aiming for ‘wet puppy.’”  
  
Seeing her smile is nice. After their argument, things got weird for a while. Not unfriendly but tense. Conversations were clipped and he hated to visit and feel Aster’s guard up around him. Some nights he thought the years of working to be close to her were slipping out of his grasp. But the weeks gave way to months and eventually, they slid into a fragile normalcy. So long as he didn’t bring up the source of their tension that night, everything would be fine. But it still nagged at his brain even as they carried on.  
  
Nothing with Kyrie had changed much. She started going back to the park but accompanied by her older brother, and Credo was nowhere near the conversational delight of Stella. He usually sat on a bench and glowered, unwilling to so much as acknowledge Dante or Aster. The captain and his wife were ghosts in the harbor district now, rarely seen, even harder to talk to, and giving none of the secular residents a representative in the Order. No wonder people were moving. And in the midst of it was Nero - trying to be normal and play with his best friend, all the while both were painfully aware that _something_ was changing.  
  
He wills himself to not think about it. Tonight is a nice night. The rain is peaceful and Aster keeps giggling as she lifts Dante’s coat off her son’s skinny frame. Moments like these are too rare; her happiness is always so subdued. He isn’t in the mood to spoil it. So he brightens his expression and follows his family upstairs, tracking the water the whole time, and not minding a bit when she shoos him to dry off and change.  
  
Still his mind wanders as he towels out his hair. When had the changes in Fortuna started? Nothing happened overnight, everything had an origin, and yet the shift in the island’s atmosphere had snuck up on him. He peels out of his drenched t-shirt, hangs it over the shower rod to dry, and looks down at his chest. Seven years he’d been coming to this island, seven he’d grown. He’s taller now. Broader. It occurs to him that he was this drenched the first time he met Aster. Nero had been a newborn and they were both strangers to him. That had changed as imperceptibly as the strange place the pair called home. They were his family now. They were a comfort.  
  
Fortuna’s walls were constricting in on their little sliver of the ancient city. He wasn’t stupid. The Harbor District, with its almost entirely secular population, was the one being choked. Shows played at the Opera House, rich tourists flowed into ritzy hotels, and those familiar white cowls walked without worry. _Their_ streets weren’t empty. Their lives were unchanged. The upheaval was only for those who didn’t walk with the “Savior’s” guidance - the true believers went unbothered. It was the why that he couldn’t wrap his head around.  
  
“Uncle Dante, hurry up! Your food’s gonna get cold!”  
  
He startles, realizes he’s been staring at the mirror without seeing for way too long, and quickly yanks on a fresh shirt and pants. By the time he makes it to the kitchen, Nero’s already dug in and claimed one of Dante’s eggrolls for himself. In faux-revenge, he makes sure to mess up the kid’s hair as he walks by to find one of the beers he knows Aster keeps in her fridge.  
  
“Did you fall in?” she asks with raised eyebrows. As he stands up from digging around in the shelves, he tosses one brown bottle to her and winks.  
  
“Got distracted by how pretty I am.”  
  
“Pretty obnoxious, maybe,” she retorts. Dante clutches at his chest to feign an arrow through the heart. She throws the bottle cap and it plinks harmlessly off his fat head. The whole time, Nero stuffs food into his face and watches his mom and uncle exchange barbs with his feet kicking happily above the floor. Sometimes he’ll sneak his fork across the table to steal something off Aster’s plate for himself. He thinks Dante doesn’t notice. Of course, he _does_ but says nothing because it will be funny when his mom realizes she’s missing a crab rangoon. Though he does where all of the food fits in such a teeny tiny body.  
  
Thunder again, this time booming loud enough to make the kitchen rattle.The three startle at the noise; Nero lets slip a small, nervous sound that draws both adults attention. Of course Aster is the first to react, reaching to scrub a grain of fried rice off his doughy cheek.  
  
“It’s okay. Just sound. It’s not gonna hurt us--”  
  
The shop’s door bell cuts her off. It rattles long and loud from beneath them, stops, and then sounds again. Over and over without ceasing, the intervals between rings getting shorter. Insistent. Wooden chair legs scrape and rattle against the tile as Aster gets to her feet.  
  
“What on _earth…”_ she mutters. She gently touches the top of Nero’s head as she passes behind him. “I’ll be right back.” Her shoulders are squared, a hand tensed at her side as the other tugs her hair free from the elastic holding it in its braid. It unfurls on its own with a sound like silk sliding along silk and turns into a long sheet of liquid ruby hanging over her shoulder.  
  
The bell never stops. Aster hurries away, through the ever-cluttered living room, and vanishes down the stairs before she can give Dante a chance to say that he’s the one who handles dangerous shit for a living. The unsaid command in her body and tone was for the pair of them to stay put. He knows that. But Nero doesn’t care and when he slides out of his chair to chase her, Dante follows.  
  
They make it halfway down the stairs when the shop’s door _BANGS_ as it is thrown open hard and slams into the wall. His heart leaps into his throat, fear fires up from his stomach and sparks across his nerves. His mind races. Rebellion and his guns are in his guitar case downstairs. If he moves fast, he can get to them and everything will be fine. But then a screaming sob cuts through the air and memories of a time and place in the past he desperately wants to forget.  
  
The color melts out of Nero’s face and his bright eyes stretch wide. “That’s-!” Dante can’t stop him from lunging forward to clear the rest of the steps with his uncle just behind.  
  
The scene they stumble into isn’t the one he expects. It might be worse.  
  
Aster sits on her knees in the empty space of her shop’s floor. The source of the wailing is collapsed with their face in her stomach with a white knuckled grip on her shirt. The door is still open; the cold, sharp and damp, has flooded the compact space. Outside, the wind howls and the rain clatters relentlessly against the window. It’s loud enough to be deafening and yet somehow cannot drown out the girl _screaming_ in Aster’s arms.  
  
It takes Dante a moment to recognize her- ginger-brown hair, peach-warm complexion turned pale from rain, and the familiar white cowl young children in the Order are required to wear.  
  
_“MAMA- PAPA-!”_ _  
__  
_ Oh no.  
  
“Kyrie- Kyrie, dear, wh-what-” She can’t even stammer out a question. The uncontrollable sobbing won’t stop. A tremble runs through Aster’s slim frame. Her golden gaze flicks from the girl, to Dante and her son, and back again. She shifts her weight, bends over to more completely haul Kyrie into a more tight embrace, and flinches as another miserable scream wrenches itself out of a small chest.  
  
Nero’s hands come up to cover his ears. A frightened whine escapes his mouth. It’s overwhelming. Scaring him. It’s grief on a level that a seven year old can’t comprehend, coming from his best friend in the world.  
  
“It’s okay… _it’s okay..._ ” says Aster with her face in the girl’s drenched hair. Rocking them, wincing as the thunder outside rattles her home again and draws another loud wail out. For just a moment, her bright eyes open and look over at Dante. They’re wide and ringed in shadow, staring at and beyond him at the same time. Utterly helpless but intimately familiar with the terror gripping the child in her arms. In an instant, he realizes she’s screamed the same way before - been too young to understand how unfair the universe is but forced to face it anyways.  
  
Just like him.  
  
“They’re gone! They’re _gone!”_ she cries, tucking herself deeper into Aster. “Th-they went to the castle a-and demons attacked and they-”  
  
The words give way to more uncontrolled sobbing. Aster’s paralyzed. He can see her shoulders trembling and the tightness of her jaw as she tries to reign that fear in. Again her gaze flits to glance at Nero, pale and uncertain of what he should do, and Dante can see the thoughts spiraling inside her head. He reaches down to touch trembling shoulders. The contact startles him. His head jerks up to look at Dante, who’s trying his best to keep his own rampaging emotions from unwanted memories under control.  
  
“Let’s go upstairs, buddy. Give them a little sp-”  
  
“KYRIE!”  
  
The shout comes from the open doorway and Kyrie lifts her head from Aster’s chest for the first time since she burst into the shop. Credo stands there, gripping the door frame, in a pale white uniform soaked completely through. His usually-perfect hair hangs across his forehead and his teeth are set tight together. Halfway to a snarl, or maybe a cry like his sister, it ages the face of the sixteen year old boy in front of them into that of a man bursting with misplaced rage.  
  
“What are you doing here?” he asks in a harsh tone, stalking into the shop with blazing eyes focusing on the woman holding tight to his little sister. He reaches out, comes within inches of touching Aster, and the only thing that stops him is Dante taking hold of his wrist. The teenager startles and jerks his head up to look at him. His entire body is a coiled spring of fury on the verge of snapping at the first provocation. “Let go of me. We’re leaving.”  
  
“I don’t wanna go!” Kyrie blurts out between sobs. Her arms wrap tighter around Aster and she in turn lays her palm across the girl’s back. A ripple runs through her hair, a shimmer of light that could be mistaken for lightning flashing through the windows, out of a protective instinct as wide as the sky. “I wanna stay here with Miss Aster!”  
  
Impotent rage buckles under the weight of her tone. He tugs his arm and Dante lets go, surer now that he won’t touch his family. The boy’s brow creases - and he really is a boy because with ten years between him and Credo, Dante’s realizing just how young sixteen is - and he sinks toward the ground to get at eye level with his sister. He pointedly refuses to look at the other three. The stern ridge of his brow cracks and his throat tightens.  
  
“...Kyrie… _please._ I’m sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to scare you.” _  
__  
_ Stillness falls, broken only by the unyielding downpour, smothering the soft whining and hiccups of the little child hidden within Aster’s shawl. The front door is still open and swings in the wind, clacking against the wall with every strong gust. Kyrie lifts her head from where she’s hidden it against Aster’s collarbone to really take in the weakness all over her older brother’s face.  
  
He wonders why she ran. If Credo is the kind of person Dante thinks he is, he must have lost his temper. Not at her but at the world. That kind of anger is a scary thing to face when you’re six and newly-orphaned. Any little girl would run, especially from a house that was going to be much emptier from now on.  
  
Even still, her tiny hand stretches out to wrap tight around one of her brother’s gloved fingers. She squeezes it tight and lets herself be lifted up. In one smooth motion, she’s pulled off the ground and into the crook of her older brother’s elbow. Again she’s quick to cling to him and bury her face against his shoulder to cry. The screaming has subsided, given way to quiet weeping muffled by the soaked fabric of her brother’s uniform. Credo presses his chin against the side of her head, but his eyes stay forward and locked on himself and Aster. She raises on shaking legs and hugs her shawl around her body, as though she’s only just become aware of the cold.  
  
“Credo, you- the both of you can stay-”  
  
“I don’t anything from the likes of you,” he hisses, voice acrid and sharp like a poison spilling out of his lips, all directed at the woman behind him. It makes Dante want to step in front of her again, a physical barrier between his nephew’s mother and grief-stricken rage. “You who consorts with…” A stony gaze twitches over to Dante. “With _demons_.” The hate saturating that single word makes his stomach twist. “You bring this down on us and-”  
  
“Credo…” Kyrie whispers to stop the tirade. “Please. Please stop. I wanna go home.”  
  
The sky rumbles, quieter now as the brunt of the storm finally begins to weaken, and the rain slows outside. Credo grits his teeth, willing himself to stay silent for his sister’s sake, and spits a curse out as he turns away. He doesn’t say anything else - merely slips back out into the night with his sister’s glossy eyes watching them from over his shoulder.

\--

That morning, the first thing he does is call Lady. Her initial anger at having to babysit his shop is quick to fizzle out when he tells her why. After that, her tone turns hushed and somber, and he knows better than to ask if her mind’s gone to the same place in her past that his went to. The answer is obvious without ever saying. They talk for a while, Dante tucked into the corner of Aster’s catch-all chair, watching his not-quite-sister-in-law try to coax his nephew into eating _something_ for breakfast. Every so often her attention will tilt his way and the only thing he can do is offer a strained smile in return.  
  
_“Seems strange,”_ Lady says in a muted voice. _“A whole island full of demon hunters and yet…”_ The sentence goes unfinished. The point is made without saying the word, anyways. Dante frowns and cranes his neck to look out the window behind the chair. Outside, the rain keeps coming - a gray mist in dull morning light. _“You goin’ to the funeral?”_  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
_“Mgh. What a nightmare… Keep your eyes peeled. And you owe me,”_ she adds in as unserious a tone as she can manage in the circumstances. Across the room, Nero picks listlessly at the eggs on his plate, taking only the most insubstantial of bites to please his worrying mom.  
  
“Yeah. Add it to my tab.” That earns him a small huff of laughter. “Gotta run. Need to go find a suit, I guess.”  
  
Time blurs at the edges. Minutes slip into hours, broken up only by the quiet whispering of the two clerks at the lone consignment shop in the Harbor District. ( _Did you hear about the captain and his wife, those poor kids, so sad, how did the knights let it happen, isn’t that kind of scary…?)_ And then he lets himself slip back into the muffled quiet of moving on autopilot. Of course he’s thought about that - it’s all he’s thought about since last night.  
  
_People started dying out of nowhere,_ says a voice in his ear that sounds suspiciously reminiscent of himself eighteen years ago. _Remember? That family up the road…_ _  
_ _  
_ He grabs the first black suit that’s approximately his size, pays without making eye contact with the clerks, and walks home with his mind a thousand miles away and a very long time in the past. There’s a pair of women in hoods on a corner near the bodega - collecting money for the Captain’s orphaned children, they say - but both pointedly avoid looking at him and his heretical white hair as he passes.  
  
_Mom told us it would be okay. She was always telling Vergil to stop worrying so much._  
  
The suit’s not quite right, big enough on him to look slouchy and disrespectful, which means he spends the afternoon standing in the living room with his arms stretched out while Aster tries to figure out how to put a stitch in the jacket to bring it in. Of course in this library masquerading as a house, she has a book about sewing. The spine cracked when she opened it though. Nero’s sprawled on the couch next to them, watching with a half-smile as his mom and uncle bicker gently amongst themselves.  
  
“This isn’t- no, no wait, it’s- uh- it’s fine… I think...”  
  
“Very reassuring,” he says, only to take a deliberate poke to his side from her needle. But he can’t bring himself to rib her too hard. These traditional “mom” things were always far outside her scholarly purview. They tended to fall to Stella, patiently fixing a tear in Nero’s favorite hoodie at the park while the much younger mother apologized for the umpteenth time for not knowing how to do this herself.  
  
He thinks maybe he should learn how to sew.  
  
Eventually the suit fits well enough. They lay it out on top of Aster’s bed, next to her dress and Nero’s tiny black jacket, ready for tomorrow. And then they spend the night watching old movies in the living room. Nero tucks deep into his mother’s side and her fingers rake mindless strokes through his hair. Whatever’s playing on the tv doesn’t absorb. It’s just sound to blot out thoughts, to give them a night of pretend normalcy.  
  
“...Aster, listen…”  
  
“Not tonight,” she replies without hesitation, without looking at him. He can see the uninterrupted movie reflected in her eyes. Her son presses in closer and, in turn, she pulls more of their shared blanket to cover his shoulders. “Tomorrow.”  
  
_Maybe we should have worried a little more._

\--

The funeral is packed. 

Even with changes sweeping through the Harbor District, even with their recent distance, the Captain and his wife were still loved, still appreciated by droves of people from both worlds crammed together on their tiny island. It seems as though the whole of Fortuna has come to the Order’s cemetery outside the city to pay respects. Rows of people in hoods stream by, carrying lanterns on chains that swing to and fro with every step. Smoke billows out of the tops and chokes the air with the overpowering smell of snowbell blossom and frankincense. A way to carry prayers up to their god, Aster says.  
  
Somewhere in a darkened corner of his brain, he wonders if he had burned a few dry leaves, his father would have heard _his_ prayers to come home.  
  
Next to him, Aster is a statue with straight back and clenched jaw. Both of her hands rest firmly on Nero’s shoulders. He keeps wanting to stray off and plunge into the crowd of believers to find Kyrie. The girl is all the way at the front of the congregation, standing with her brother by a pair of coffins being anointed by a priest. They’re too far away to hear all of the sermon. Not that Dante even _wants_ to hear it but only being able to make out the tone of voice without the words does nothing to help how muddled the last two days have been. Only clipped fragments of sentences and, sometimes, the familiar wail of a grief-stricken six-year-old are carried their way on the wind. The sky stretches endlessly gray above them. Rain threatens but never falls and the incense rises as thick clouds into the sky, potent enough to make his brain throb.  
  
“...and guide them…”

 _We didn’t have a funeral for dad_ , says the voice at the edge of his mind. _Just a wake. There was never a body but mom knew. She cried for days. I guess she felt it._

He really wishes he didn’t have to think about all of this right now. He wants to turn his brain off and drift through the rest of the procession like a man in a trance, but the real world keeps forcing its way in and bringing unwanted memories along the way. Aster moves in the corner of his vision, stoops down to murmur something in Nero’s ear, and the boy nods in return. When she returns her attention to Dante, he sucks in a breath. Tired eyes and a strained smile look back at him as another familiar intrusion from the past.  
  
“They’re going to start letting people lay flowers soon. We’re gonna go line up, if you want to wait…”  
  
In his heart, he knows he should go with them and help Aster wrangle a young boy who is desperate to reach his best friend on one of the worst days of her life. But there’s no version of himself that’s willing to get that close to caskets holding people he _knows._ Or… knew. So he lets Nero take the bundle of white roses, pats the top of his nephew’s head, and flashes an apologetic quirk of his lips at his mother. At least it doesn’t seem to upset her. She’d probably rather be doing _anything_ else too. They leave Dante to his own devices, letting him wander to find a bench far away from the ceremony.

Watching from a distance doesn’t make any of this less unpleasant, it only gives him a better view of the procession. People making their way down to the pair of fresh graves and the coffins waiting to be lowered into them. The mountain of bouquets expanding outward as every mourner approaches to blanket the ground with flowers. Credo at the head of the group, resolute at attention as people pass, and Kyrie hidden behind his legs, clutching at her older brother’s uniform. 

And his own family in the midst of the group, bright hair making them easy to spot. Nero leans out of the line constantly in an attempt to make eye contact with his best friend before being gently corralled by his mom. He shifts his weight on nervous feet, holding fast to a bundle of roses nearly as wide as he is. Aster is more patient. Most of the time, she keeps her head down to talk to Nero, but sometimes it lifts. Even from this distance, he can see it - her eyes sweeping over the mass of people in a vain hunt for someone who will never be there. Eventually she comes back to reality at the slight tug on the hem of her sleeve and lets Nero lead her forward until she realizes she’s face to face with her friends’ orphaned children. Credo observes Aster with an expression of barely concealed loathing. If it bothers her, she makes no show of it. Her head nods in quiet acknowledgement.  
  
Nero takes the opportunity to slip out of Aster’s reach and rush past the older boy. The roses fall from his hold and send white petals fluttering bird-like into the air as he throws his arms around Kyrie, buries his face in her shoulder, and clings to her as tightly as his slight frame will allow. Her doe-eyed surprise is as short as a breath and then she returns it with equal fervor. The rest of the world seems to fall to the wayside. Seconds take minutes, the clouds churn a little slower, and everyone in the procession has the decency to leave them alone. Let them have their time and say whatever a pair of young children might whisper to comfort each other when it seems like the world is collapsing.

Eventually it has to end. A gloved hand brushes Kyrie’s shoulder to remind her that her older brother is still there. Aster stoops down beside the kids and lays a palm flat on Nero’s back. Time returns to its normal flow and the sky moves again. They let go of each other. Both look so small and so tired and so helpless and he hates it. Whatever else they say or do after that, he doesn’t see. He gets up from his bench and strides further away from all of it. Through rows of graves, past cultists scrutinizing him, to the gate at the edge of the property where he can sit in silence and wish, wish, _wish_ he could think of anything else except his mother shoving him into a closet and telling him to run for his life if she didn’t return.  
  
_You could have done something._  
  
He thinks of Vergil. He really doesn’t want to but he hasn’t been in control of his thoughts for the last few days, so why should he start now? So his brother, gone so far out of reach that he may as well be dead, intrudes into his thoughts. A ghost lurking in the corner of his vision, eternally nineteen, repeating the same thing he said when he stuck Yamato through Dante’s gut. On loop forever. A broken record desperate for new material saying the same thing over and over from now unto eternity.  
  
_Without strength-_  
  
“Dante,” says Aster from behind him. He pushes himself from the gate to turn her way. She’s standing there with Nero in her arms, a bit too big for his mother’s slight frame, but carrying him all the same because she’s his mom and that’s what moms do. The boy’s eyes are red and cheeks tear-stained. He stays quiet and hugs his arms tighter around her neck. “Let’s go home.”

\--

The warmth of the townhouse is a much-needed comfort and he’s never been so happy to sink down onto a couch in his life. He’s already considering burning his new suit when he gets home to rid himself of the bad energy that’s woven its way in the fabric. Across from him, Aster is unbuttoning her son’s suit jacket while he scrubs at his eyes. The tears stopped on the walk back and now Dante can see weariness tugging on every fiber in his nephew’s body. Then he smiles, fragile and wobbly but a smile nonetheless, when his mom says he did good today and she loves him and it makes Dante’s gut twist like a pit of eels.  
  
So as Aster is sending her son off to put on his pajamas, he leans forward on his knees and says,  
  
“I think I should teach Nero how to fight.”  
  
Any momentum carrying the pair comes to an abrupt halt. Aster turns her head to look at Dante with deep-creased brows.  
  
“...what?”  
  
“Not- nothing intense. Not a full training… thing, just lessons. The basics. Stuff he should know.”  
  
“Stuff he- why should he know? That-” The warmth in the living room is rapidly evaporating as Aster turns her full attention to him, still clutching the tiny black jacket in her hands. “No. No, absolutely not.”  
  
“Wh- Aster, listen to me-”  
  
“Nero, go upstairs.” There’s a noise, like an attempt at protest, before her tone turns sharp: “I said _go upstairs.”_ Still he hesitates and glances to his uncle in some attempt to find understanding. Fighting, it seems, was never something he considered. The only thing that makes him move is his mom pointing forcefully to the stairs. Nero looks between the both of them one more time, then rushes to escape the budding tension. Dante drags his hands through his hair.  
  
“Aster, you gotta admit something weird is going on and if you won’t- if you won’t leave, and I can’t be around all the time-” He gets to his feet to try and close some of the distance separating them. “Then at least let me tell him what to do.”  
  
“And I said no. He’s _seven_ , Dante. The only thing I need him to learn right now is his times tables.”  
  
“Well, we don’t have that kind of a luxury.”  
  
“And who is ‘we?!’ Don’t I get a say in this? In whether or not my son is part of some kind of collective?” She isn’t shouting, but there’s an escalating tremor in her words.  
  
“You know what I mean! Sons of Sparda, people who demons want dead and humans want to use. I mean, for _fuck’s sake,_ Aster, they were praying to his goddamn _grandfather_ at a funeral for his best friends’ parents! Don’t you think someone’s going to find out eventually? How do you think that’s gonna go?”  
  
“Keep your voice down. You’re going to scare him.”  
  
“He’s already scared and this is only going to make it scarier!” Her face twists up and she turns from him, moving along with the jacket still in her hands. Holding it close to her chest, running her thumb over the collar as she processes his words. “Sheltering him from it isn’t going to make it any better. I remember what it was like when I was a kid. My mother didn’t want to scare me and I had to watch her _die_ and I don’t-”  
  
**_“I AM NOT YOUR MOTHER.”_**  
  
All of the air vanishes from the room. Dante finds himself on the receiving end of a deep snarl, so blindingly furious that it radiates through her hair in a wave. The blood in his veins freezes and anything he was going to say wilts on his tongue. Slowly, Aster processes her own outburst. Burning gold eyes shut tight and the fist balled at her side unfurls. Fingertips, shaking with rage, touch at her temples and she forces herself to breathe. It comes out trembling. One, then two steps away from him to survey the ever-cluttered living room with an expression like she can hardly believe it’s hers.  
  
He doesn’t speak. But she does, more than he ever expected, fast and forced, compelled to say them by an internal drive that she can’t reign in.  
  
“My mother was a witch of unimaginable skill who fought alongside Sparda in the Rebellion. She made me to be a vessel. Not to love or to nurture or to care for but so that one day, she could take my body and put me on like a new suit and she didn’t care that the _me_ inside would die. All that mattered was that she could live forever.”  
  
The ice in his blood sinks in deeper, buries its way into his marrow. “Aster-”  
  
“The first time I realized it, I was six. And I cried all the time because I was so scared and there was nothing I could do. Every day, I had to live with this... _thing_ looming over me and never once in my life did I get to be a child.”  
  
Finally, she lays the little coat down on top of the catch-all, keeps her back to him and speaks softer:  “Neither did you. Or Vergil. We all had to grow up so fast and...” Somewhere in the empty space of his floundering brain, he thinks about how rarely she says his twin’s name. Her hair is free from its braid, fallen over her shoulder and down her spine. A curtain between them.  
  
“I don’t want that for Nero. He’s a _baby._ He deserves a childhood, a real one, as… as normal as possible, where awful things happen but his first instinct isn’t to go in swinging.” Her arms wrap around herself and she tucks her cheek against her shoulder. “I’m not your mother. And Nero isn’t you.”  
  
There’s only a few feet between them but it feels like miles.  
  
“Yeah, that sounds nice. But it isn’t that simple,” he mutters, voice coming out rough. “What if something finds you? Demons or the Order or… anyone who wants to take a piece of a Son of Sparda.”  
  
“I’m his mom. It’s my job to keep him safe. Besides, what could a seven year old do?” And then, much softer with her head tilting his way, she says: “Or… an eight year old, for that matter?”  
  
Of course.  
  
Vergil told her about them, about what happened, and now obviously about how old they were. The cold that took root under his skin is replaced by a blossoming heat in his chest. Anger that he doesn’t know where to place because his fuck-up twin had no right to spill all of their secrets to someone he barely knew before deciding to throw himself into the abyss. It’s not her business. And the anger is irrational, Dante knows it is, but it grows bigger and brighter within his ribcage the more he feels like he’s under a microscope. Especially now that she’s finally looking at him and her eyes are so unnerving. Molten gold, unblinking and - maybe worse than angry - _pitying._  
  
“And what would you do? You couldn’t even-” The words choke halfway up his throat. _Couldn’t even protect Vergil._ He wants to scream it in her face. She’s waiting for it, too. Sunk in on herself, braced for whatever comes next with her arms hugged around her midsection. Instead he curses through clenched teeth. “Fuck this. I never should have said anything.”  
  
“Dante, wait-” The fight runs out of her in an instant and he feels ashamed of his own rage even as he turns to stalk toward the stairs. “Dante, I- please don’t shut down on me-”  
  
_“Don’t_ start,” he snaps. “I don’t want to hear it right now. I’m-” One hand clenches at his side and he knows he’s going to regret this but he can’t stop himself. He’s as useless now as he was then. “I’m leaving.”  
  
There are no footsteps behind him, no indicator that she’s following. He takes the chance to storm toward the stairs unimpeded. For a blink, he looks up at the staircase leading to the second level and sees the pale face of his young nephew staring back. But then Nero’s gone, vanished up to the attic, and he does the same, descending into the shop. He grabs his red coat, Ebony and Ivory, and his guitar case.  
  
He slams the shop door behind him. It’s muffled by a distant boom of thunder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think parenthood is the act of trying to not inflict your own traumas on your kid, but inevitably screwing up and giving them whole new ones instead.


	10. All That Remains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote part of this chapter three times. I’m very tired.

_“This is Dante. Leave a message, keep my phone company.”_  
  
“Hey, Uncle Dante. Guess you finally got an answering machine, huh? I found your number in mom’s old guest book so… I thought I’d call and say hi? It’s real lonely around here. Kyrie joined the Order’s choir, so she never has any time to play. When’re you comin’ to visit? The art festival’s next month, y’know. Mom says it’s gonna be small but you should come anyways!  
  
“Um… are you mad at me…? You haven’t called us in a long time and… I kinda miss you...”

\--

Rebellion comes down hard and fast. The blade splits meat and bone with a splattering crunch. A head of writhing tentacles and a toothy, snapping beak drops to the warehouse floor and bounces across the concrete like a morbid basketball. Dark red blood, thick and - far more vile - _chunky,_ pours from the gaping stump. Dante sidesteps the spray to avoid taking a facefull of demon gore. A few feet away from him, Lady groans from where the target lobbed her through a dozen or so crates and picks herself up to watch. The sight makes her whole face scrunch up. Every so often, something will find a way to disgust one of them.  
  
“God, that smell is awful.” She flops down again to stare at the warehouse rafters. “Why the hell are we in this business? All I ever do is stink.”  
  
The body collapses to the ground in a heap and viscera splatters out from its wounds. Dante’s nose wrinkles but he gives the corpse a tentative poke with the tip of his sword anyways to make sure it’s actually dead. Ash creeps along its leathery skin. Bit by bit, it crumbles into itself, wilting until the only remains are a smear on the floor and a pair of serrated claws the size of his hand.  
  
“Oh hey, grab those,” Lady calls, finally dragging herself to stand. “The client wanted ‘em as proof.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. I remember.”  
  
He can feel her frowning at the back of his head. It takes all of his willpower to not acknowledge Lady as he stoops down to pocket the proof of their kill. Now really isn’t the time to have _that_ conversation again.  
  
Or for the first time, technically. She’s tried to bridge the subject at least twice the last two months. Both times he’s brushed it off with the excuse that he was too busy to think about it. It wasn’t entirely a lie either. Business was… Well, booming was generous. But it was steady. Steady enough to let him pour himself into killing demons without his mind turning to the quiet voicemail on the shop’s answering machine and the shame that burned in him every time Dante heard it.  
  
“Hey-”  
  
“You really wanna have a heart-to-heart now? Smellin’ as bad as we do?” he interrupts, turning to face her with his best, most convincing smirk on his face. She doesn’t buy it, but she doesn’t have to. His flippancy is enough to throw her plans for a loop and give him an out. “No thanks. I’m gonna go home and rinse off. You can come pick up your cut tomorrow. 70/30, right?”  
  
A long, frustrated sigh forces out of her and she itches at her temple. “Get real. You know it’s 50/50. I softened it up for you.”  
  
That’ll buy him a few days.

\--

 _“This is Dante. Leave a message. No promises on getting back to you, though.”_  
  
“It’s Nero. Again. Just callin’ to check in. I guess. The festival was a total bust. There was like no one there, so I guess it’s kinda good you didn’t come. But I got some cool books about cars and a tool kit and… all kinds of neat stuff… You gotta come see it! ‘Cause like… you are gonna see us soon, right? Mom was talking about you the other day. Oh! Uh! N-nothing bad! Just about how you two would hang out when I was a baby and stuff.  
  
“...I think she’s... I know she tried to call. Hung up before the machine got it, though. Are you ever gonna call us...?”

\--

Bullseye is always dead on Tuesdays and that is exactly how Dante wants it. Nights like these, the music on the sound system is subdued so the song playing is a murmur that drifts in and out of the edge of his hearing. The lights are low, the neon beer signs hum and pop and cast everything in a comfortable, warm glow. The only other people in the old bar are a trio of octogenarian regulars who play poker and drink forties until closing time, some drunk businessmen at a table in the corner, and the bartender that he is very pointedly ignoring while he works on his fifth-or-sixth whiskey. It’s the perfect chill atmosphere to drink and drink and drink until he wakes up on the couch in the shop.  
  
Except that Eryn refuses to leave well enough alone.  
  
“You know,” the older man says without looking up from washing his glasses. “I’m gonna start thinking you have a problem if you come in every single night in a week. Should I start thinking of a day to stage an intervention?”  
  
“I can quit whenever I want,” he retorts with a wry smile. It nets him a warm chucke from the man on the other side of the bar. Dante doesn’t lift his head from his drink though. He runs a bare thumb over the lip of the glass and listens to it resonate out a quiet tone. Most of the sound is drowned by the jazz drifting out of the speakers mounted in the ceiling. “And anyways, who’s gonna intervene? You and Lady?”  
  
Eryn hums to himself. In the corner of Dante’s vision, he can see dark hands working to put each glass where they belong. “I can put on some pretty effective doe eyes, if the need arises.” The mental image forces a bark of laughter out of Dante’s chest. _“And_ I can be funny. Haven’t heard you laugh in here in a minute.”  
  
No choice but to look at him now. His bartender’s leaned against the back counter, arms folded over his chest, head tilted with a fond smile pulled across his wide mouth. A bit of warmth blossoms behind Dante’s sternum despite the ache deeper in his soul. Ten years he’s been a regular, when neither of them were technically old enough to be around alcohol, and the only sign Eryn’s aged is a trim beard and a longer ponytail. Dante’s just three years younger at 27 and somehow feels like a run down old man in comparison.  
  
“I’m sure the drinking and throwing yourself in harm’s way constantly has nothing to do with that.”  
  
“...Wh- did I say that out loud?”  
  
“You said you feel like an old man.”  
  
Embarrassed heat creeps up his neck and into his face. He groans and rakes his fingers into his hair, slouched in his barstool, once more looking away from his bartender. That doesn’t stop Eryn from casually removing the empty whiskey tumbler and replacing it with a glass of water. Dante scowls first at it, then at his friend, before shuffling around in his jacket to slap another twenty on the bar. All it gets him is a slight headshake.  
  
“Are-” As if to rub it in, Eryn pours _himself_ a neat Jack while Dante stammers. He even takes a sip before pointedly pushing the water closer to his customer with a single finger. “Are you cutting me off!?”  
  
“I am cutting you off. First time for everything, right?” In his years coming to Bullseye, he’s never been told he’s had too much. He’d drink himself into a stupor and either stagger home or let Eryn drag him there. There was never a problem with the arrangement. Now the impishness of his bartender’s voice fades and his grin gets tense. He presses his glass between his palms and rolls it to watch the amber drink swirl inside.  
  
“What the hell, Eryn? I haven’t even had that many _and_ I got money for once, so what’s the big-”  
  
“The thing with old men is,” he interjects in a quiet, firm tone. “They never want to admit that something is wrong. They’d rather keep it in and let it stew. Until eats them alive.”  
  
Dante can’t even lie to himself to say he’s surprised. That’s why he’s here every night for the last week. Working relentlessly and drinking his thoughts away are his only coping mechanisms. It’s been more than four months since he left Fortuna. Four months since he’s even said anything to what remains of his family. Every time he thinks he could pick up the phone and apologize and try to make things better, he remembers the fight. Then the disgust with himself rises up as acrid bile inside his chest.  
  
He hated Aster in that moment. Real, genuine, corrosive hate soaking his whole body because she dared to suggest there was something wrong with them. He hated her because she insisted there was nothing him and Vergil could have done that night. His only family and that was where his feelings went. How was that right? How could he even look them in the eye? Months out and the thoughts still make his stomach twist.  
  
“...C’mon, man, gimme a break…” he mutters, rubbing at the side of his neck and sinking toward his hand. “Did Lady put you up to this?”  
  
“Nope. This is all me.” He nudges the water more insistently Dante’s way. He takes the hint and picks it up to nurse while Eryn closes his eyes in thought. “I should start charging you for my wizened advice though. Make some extra money off my years of experience.”  
  
Dante props his chin on the lip of his glass to scowl up at the handsome man across from him. “Chill out. You aren’t that much older than me.” Another sip as he ponders the offer for advice. The idea of asking for help sorting out his problems makes him want to walk into the sea. But he’s had just enough to drink to be able to will himself to ask, very softly:  
  
“D’you think I’m a demon?”  
  
Would that he had a camera in that moment. The question is almost too introspective to come out of his idiot mouth and it clearly catches his friend off guard. His attention focuses on Dante, his brow furrows, and his lips draw into a tight line as he thinks of what to say, but that’s almost an answer in its own way. He must be doing a lousy job of being decent if the response doesn’t come quickly.  
  
“You’re … Dante.”  
  
“Sh’yeah, that makes me feel way better. Are you sure I can’t get another whiskey?”  
  
Eryn’s eyes roll upward. He doesn’t pour that requested drink. Instead he takes his own empty glass to be washed and wiped down, speaking carefully as he walks: “Being ‘Dante’ isn’t a bad thing.” The towel rubbing over the surface of the glass squeaks softly. When it’s completely dried, it joins the line of similar tumblers. Dante can see the ghost of his face reflected on each. “It means you’re always ready to take action when the opportunity arises.”  
  
“...Huh…”  
  
“Does that help?”  
  
Dante cracks a weak smile at the man on the other side of the bar and drops his chin in an open palm. “Hell if I know. But I’m never gonna complain when a handsome face tells me I’m not so bad.” And he takes a swig of his water right before his bartender’s wash cloth slaps into his forehead.

\--

 _“Leave a message.”_  
  
“...Ah...”  
  
“Mom! You gotta say somethin’!”  
  
“Nero, I don’t-”  
  
“C’mon! Do it!”  
  
“Hey… Dante… It’s- uh- I know it’s been a while. Things are… things are quiet. And I- Nero’s birthday is coming up and I thought… Well, maybe the three of us could go out and get dinner somewhere. (“I wanna model car kit!”) _Nero-_ Look the point is- ugh. Maybe then we could- could talk. Okay? You don’t have to call me back. Just … show up that weekend. We’ll make it work. Hopefully we’ll see you then.”  
  
“Bye Uncle Dante! See you soon!”

\--

Nearly eight years he’s made this trip and he never got his sea legs. The world is so unfair.  
  
He groans as the boat lurches along choppy seas and wonders if the waters around Fortuna are _ever_ still. Maybe that’s why the island always feels so damn cursed. The idea isn’t enough to distract him from his churning stomach, though. He holds onto the railing around the deck of the ancient dinghy and curses his demonic heritage as the waves swirl beneath. It has to be his old man’s fault that the dramamine never worked. Demon magic in his blood keeping the drugs from working right. Logically that doesn’t make sense, because he can get trashed as well as any human man, but he needs _something_ to blame. So thanks, Dad.  
  
A strong hand slaps hard between Dante’s shoulder blades, accompanied by a boisterous laugh even as he nearly pitches forward into the water. He creaks his head to look over at the captain and wishes he weren’t so green. It’s been an endless source of amusement for the old mariner and his two idiot sons since the beginning.  
  
“Glad to know that _some_ things never change,” Claude cackles behind his ever-bushy beard, undaunted by the withering look thrown his way. “The tides come in and out and Mr. Rockstar-” A nickname Dante eventually picked up because of his ever-present guitar case. “-Can’t handle a few waves.”  
  
“M’glad it’s still funny for you,” he grumbles in return. Somewhere up on the bridge, he can hear a duo of male voices laughing just as boisterously. “And for Emil and Marco."  
  
“You ought to see Emil’s impression of you.” Dante grimaces at the thought and considers hurling himself into the drink. The old captain’s shoulders bounce with quiet laughing and he fishes out the latest pack of cigarettes Dante used to pay his way onto the boat. As he plucks one from the row, he hums in thought. “It’s good to have you aboard for our last trip to Fortuna. A fine way to cap off the years.”  
  
Dante’s eyebrows tip upward. Not as surprising as he expected, but he thought the old man would stick it out ‘till the end. “You too, huh?” The distant island draws closer as they talk. A veil of fall mist hangs over the port, blanketing it in a sheet of gray thick enough to turn the spires and rooftops of the city into blurred silhouettes. There’s less boats in the harbor than ever. Most are old, likely owned by the Order, and the lone unaffiliated vessel is the paddleboat that’s always fascinated his nephew.  
  
The waves carry the last notes of a far-off church bell to their ears. One clang, then another, before the wind picks up and drowns the sound.  
  
“Dealing with the Order’s too much a hassle,” said plaintively but he can hear the sharp bitterness. “They’re running everyone off. I reckon that new Vicar of theirs decided the island’s just for the True Believers.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dante can see the old man square his shoulders up. It occurs to him that he’s suddenly the subject of intense scrutiny, the kind that makes his nerves itch. “I’ll tell you, boy - if you gotta drag them kicking and screaming, you ought to bring that family of yours with you when you go. We won’t mind a few extra passengers when we ship out tomorrow.”  
  
Again he hears the tone of a bell. Or bells? The echoes on the surface of the water is throwing him off. It sounds like every bell in the city is ringing all at once.  
  
“You’ll have to help me drag them then. My, erh, sister-in-law refuses to go.”  
  
His sister-in-law. Easier to call Aster that to some folk and avoid the explanation. Harder to think of her in any substantial way. His mind inevitably goes to the argument every time and then to the conversation waiting for him. The idea of it makes him want to leap out of his skin. Facing her feels unearned and apologizing after the way he stormed off even more shameful. _“Don’t shut down on me,”_ she nearly begged and then he did just that for four months. It would have persisted if Nero hadn’t made _her_ call. Forced into action by a seven-going-on-eight year old. He can almost hear his twin sneering: _“Foolishness.”  
  
_ Yet he can’t ignore them either. He needs to talk, needs to see them, needs to set this right and somehow convince Aster off the island before things get worse. That’s a tall order. There’s no one as stubborn as himself but she comes awful close. Fortuna is home and where she raised her son and where Vergil would look for them. Asking her to abandon the townhouse, the island, is asking her to give up.  
  
Asking her to accept that Vergil is-  
  
Waves heave the boat up and down; Dante’s stomach goes with it. He grips the railing tighter and steels himself for both the nausea and the captain’s laughter, but it doesn’t come. It’s only when he focuses his attention that he realizes that it wasn’t echoes at all. The church bells are still ringing. Constantly. Not just sounding the hour, not just the bell from the main cathedral, but a dozen clattering out of time. Growing louder as the ship putters toward the harbor, turning quickly into a cacophony that signals something gone horribly wrong.  
  
Unnatural static hums in the air and spikes across his skin. It’s the sensation he gets in every abandoned apartment block, every warehouse on the job. It was ever-present in Temen-ni-gru and he felt it that night hiding in a closet as his home burned. A cold vine of blossoming fear wraps around his heart and squeezes tight; the unsteadiness in his legs vanishes. His eyes dart from the boat to the pier and back. Fifteen, maybe twenty feet from here to there.  
  
“Drop the anchor,” he orders Claude, keeping his eyes forward and planting his feet. “Word of advice: don’t come ashore until the bells stop.”  
  
He doesn’t wait to hear the response before he jumps. The distance is easy to clear and he hits the landing with only the slightest stumble in his step. Save for the shocked yelp from the captain, no one comments because there’s no one else around. The docks are utterly devoid of people. Tourists, locals, guards - they’re all gone but the bells keep going so _someone_ has to be around. In the thick of the mist, he feels that hum stronger than ever. Or he tells himself that’s what he’s feeling and not panic at the notion that there’s a demon on the island, in the city, too close to his only family. The blood pulsing in his ears and the tightness in his chest is normal. All part of the hunt. But he hurries anyways, ducking into an alley, catching glimpses of people peeking at him through doors and blinds. _Please let them be inside_ , he begs internally, navigating the labyrinthine roads almost blind in the haze. _Don’t be at the park, don’t be getting food, just be inside with the doors locked, safe and sound, safe and sound…  
  
_ “Where the hell did all the damn guards go-”  
  
Human screams echo in the disorienting mist at the end of the alley. In a swing, he’s got Rebellion in hand and his guns in their holsters as he emerges onto a main road of the district. No wonder every bell was sounding the alarm - whatever demon is here has turned the street into a warzone. Smashed walls, broken windows, cars hurled down the road, and more than a few unsettlingly still bodies soaked in red. A pair of people rush by him in a panic and he thinks he recognizes them as locals, but now isn’t the time. Something moves above. Dante has a split second to react as it lunges from the roof of an apartment buildings. He brings Rebellion up and a pair of hawkish talons as long as his arm slam into the flat of the blade. It pushes in resistance. He pushes back and shoves it skidding away on equally taloned hind legs.  
  
The demon doesn’t resemble _anything_ he’s seen in his now-storied career. Eight, maybe nine feet tall; technically human proportioned except for the uncanny sense that it’s been stretched in unnatural ways. It’s wearing disparate pieces of white and gold armor that barely covers a body comprised of purpling, bulged musculature. Splinters of white feathers jut haphazardly from the flesh. There’s no visible face, only a mask of solid gold that stops above its mouth. Its lips are wrinkled and cracked and pulled wide to show row after row after row of bloodstained sawteeth.  
  
_“Sonnnnn of… Sp-ar-daaa…”  
  
_ “Thought so.” He swings Rebellion up to rest on his shoulder and twists his mouth into a smirk. “Y’know, I actually really like this part of town. It’s homey.” The broken feathers on its shoulder ripple. That’s a weird response - almost an agreement. Dante ignores it. “So I’m _mighty_ displeased that you’re tearing it apart.”  
  
_“The boy…”_ It sways side to side. A strange tic jerks its head every few moments. _“Take… the boy…”  
  
_ His smirk dies.  
  
“Wh-”  
  
The demon lunges forward quicker than a bullet from his guns. Dante backpedals easily out of the path of swung claws, only for it to follow it up with a blow from its feet. He blocks, shrugs the impact off, and closes the gap. There’s more force behind his swing with Rebellion than in years because suddenly he’s in no mood to play with his kill. His pulse pounds in his skull as the blade cleaves a long gash from shoulder to hip. It should stagger the creature. It does not. He manages to get “FU-” out of his mouth before a huge hand comes up and makes contact with his face.  
  
The impact sends him hurtling, sliding along the ground, cursing through his teeth as pain throbs across his face. Blood runs down into his eye from a long cut across his forehead. It’s already begun to knit shut as he stands but half his vision’s turned red. The demon’s head tick-tick-tick twitches his way. Its claw touches curiously at the grievous wound splitting it almost in half. Black ichor runs down its chest in a river, splattering across the uneven cobblestone, and yet it seems unaffected. Dante wonders if the thing even felt the blow at all. Then it rolls its talons, digs its heels into the ground, and moves again.  
  
He’s ready for it this time, rolling out of the path of its charge then stabbing forward. The blade pierces its ribcage - he can hear bones breaking on impact. Like before, it doesn’t even register taking damage; unlike before, Dante knows to backstep before it can get another lucky shot in. It flails its arms in wild attempts to take his head of and he avoids or blocks them all. Rebellion clangs against its hand enough to send it reeling, but instead of giving Dante an opening, it pinwheels its entire body backwards in a graceless handspring. Every move makes oil-black gore paint along the road but the blood loss seems more an inconvenience than a threat. He has no idea what in the hell this thing is. It _feels_ like a demon, has the familiar sulfuric smell of one, but even demons react to pain. If this were a job, if this thing weren’t hissing about _a boy_ , then Dante would be excited at the prospect of a new challenge.  
  
Instead he wants it dead. Now.  
  
So he chases after it when it springs away and attacks with force. Steel meets claw hard and fast enough to spark. There’s a moment of resistance, a breath where Dante thinks it can repel him, but then its metal gives, cracks in half, and splinters into shards. Momentum carries him forward and Rebellion carves upward - rending the hand in two and continuing that way all the way to its elbow. He twists his sword, angles it to hit the shoulder joint, and in a sweep, completely severs the limb. It falls limp to the ground, taloned fingers twitching. Still the thing doesn’t react. It moves to grab Dante by the throat with its remaining hand. He pulls Ebony from her holster, levels the onyx .45, and fires three quick, powerful shots that blow off most of its remaining fingers at the knuckle. A part of his brain registers that his face and jacket are covered in a spray of dark blood.  
  
_Aster’ll kill me if I track this crap into the shop…  
  
_ The demon hisses but doesn’t scream. More and more, it’s disregard of the damage taken unsettles him. Missing both of its hands elicits nothing. It tries to tackle him with its jaw unhinged and mouth open wide, rows teeth fanning outward like a snarling lamprey, intent on tearing out his throat.  
  
Dante rams Rebellion through its neck. Even with how huge it is, its unwieldy body makes forcing it to the ground a simple task. The blade punches past concrete and stone, buries in deep, and pins the thing in place as it hisses and snaps uselessly at him. Spindly limbs kick and thrash in an attempt to free itself. Bladed feet try to kick up; Dante easily avoids them, blows one off with another well placed shot from Ebony. She always did kick harder than Ivory.  
  
“Would you _give it up?”_ he hisses in frustration. It gurgles up mouthfuls of black blood down its chin and chest. The sickly liquid is starting to pool beneath his boots. For some reason, it feels dirtier than regular demon blood.  
  
_“T...ake the… b-ooy…”  
  
_ Deep purple skin starts to turn gray and collapse into ash around its wounds. The words come out thin and reedy, a wheeze that’s almost drowned by ocean winds and unyielding bells.  
  
_“Kill… the witch…”  
  
_ Cold tension boils in his stomach. _Kill the witch,_ his internal voice echoes in a deadened monotone. He watches the thing disintegrate, turn to dust around his blade, with his hands white-knuckled on the hilt. Eventually it’s just him in the middle of an empty road. The breeze whistles along the streets, rustles the clothes of a corpse nearby. It carries the smell of blood to his nose. _Kill the witch_ , repeated again but louder now. He tries to quell the voice with the assurance that it’s dead. Threat eliminated, no need to worry. He waits for the static to stop crackling across his nerves - the surest sign that the demons are gone.  
  
His skin keeps prickling.  
  
_Take the boy. Kill the witch.  
  
_ He runs.  
  
Actually, genuinely runs with fear carrying him forward and the distance between him and the townhouse feels insurmountable. The alleys are too long, too narrow, too maze-like even when he knows each as well as his own stomping grounds. Nothing can suppress this panic, no way to ignore his instincts. That thing wanted to destroy what’s left of his family and there’s more than one. He runs faster through heavy sheets of mist. Doors are locked, windows shuttered, not a soul on the street until he comes across another crumpled body reduced to ribbons of flesh. It came this way.  
  
He bursts out onto another silent main road. The bodega’s just across the street - the interior is dark, the windows are shattered, leaving the road covered in painted glass and posters and cans of whatever was on sale. There’s a clear view into the store and blood streaked in thick arcs across the back wall. His jaw locks and his stomach rises but he can’t think about it. Not yet. Once Nero and Aster are safe and sound, then he’ll think about the other bodies. Right now he just needs to move. Needs to know they’re okay.  
  
One more alley. He skitters down the slope with Rebellion in hand. A hundred feet becomes miles. He tells himself all of this panic will be for nothing and he’ll feel like such an idiot. She’s smart. She’s so much smarter than him that sometimes he loses her in normal conversations. Can’t talk about a damn horror movie without Aster bringing up a bunch of critics and film theory and stuff he’d never consider. What’s he gonna do if Nero turns out to have some sense because of her? It’d break tradition.  
  
“Please-” he whispers as he rounds the corner.  
  
Those bells keep banging their discordant tones. If she heard them, she’d know to run. To hide.  
  
The bay window at the front of the shop is broken. Not just the glass, the whole frame and wall is caved in. Destroyed wood and brick like tissue paper. Books are strewn out across the street alongside the glass. A dim memory of Aster complaining that she wanted to keep the shop tidy to contrast the disaster in the rest of the house, plays in his brain.  
  
Something moves on the second story, an explosion of activity that rumbles the whole building. Dante springs into harried movement. Clears the block, hurdles into the shop, hand scrabbling across the warped wooden floors to shove him to stand. A small and soft body impacts against the floor above him. Hard enough to make fixtures rattle. More glass breaks - plates against tile.  
  
He’s a yard away from the stairs and a woman’s scream tears ragged into the air. It doesn’t stop. It persists as he scrambles up one, two, three steps at a time, reaching the next level as things get quiet. Everything slows. The color drains from the room.  
  
In the shadow of the kitchen cabinets, another of those things is bent over Aster. Spears of red hair protrude from its chest and neck and stomach. Slender fingers grasp and claw at its forearms. They’re dug in so deep that its bleeding around her nails. As with the other, it doesn’t even register. Nothing deters it from its work. Rows of sawteeth are sunk deep into her pale shoulder. Living blood, as red as poppies, wells around the puncture marks and pours down onto the kitchen’s checkerboard tile.  
  
It smears under her elbow. Smudges across the cabinet doors. Soaks into the hoodie of the tinier figure beneath her - momentarily safe in the shelter of his mother’s back. He’s curled into himself, clinging to her dress, covered in a spray of red. Dante can see the whites of his eyes from the other side of the room.  
  
A single second ticks by. His pulse is a hammer-beat pounding explosive in his skull. Every muscle in his body lights up with electricity that would burn a regular person alive.  
  
The demon pulls its head away and the skin between its teeth pulls tight. Something wet and sinewy starts to snap between its fangs as flesh tears under incredible force. Gold eyes grow wider, pain surges bright like a live wire throughout her entire body. Delicate, blood-soaked hands move from its arms to its jaws; fumble to clutch and pull at the teeth trying to eat her alive. It’s going to kill her. It’s going to tear her apart.  
  
Rebellion rams into the back of its head. It pierces the golden mask, presumably through an eye. Jaws that held vice-tight to Aster’s shoulder go slack but it doesn’t die. Unholy shrieking, a jittery and rattling scrape of noise, fills the air as claws gouge into the cabinets behind Aster. One strikes close to Nero and he lets out a soft yelp and buries himself deeper into his mother. There’s a scramble, a shuffle of limbs and hands and spikes of hair, before Dante takes its head into his black-clawed grip and _drags_ it off his family.  
  
“...Uncle Dante…?”  
  
Nero’s voice tremors when he speaks for good reason. It occurs to Dante that this is the first time either has seen him in this form - all black leathery skin and red scale running on top. Fangs and claws and wings and only the barest suggestion there might be something human inside the carapace. More to explain to the boy later, but he’d rather explain being demon-blooded than bury the pair of them.  
  
“Help your mom get upsta-”  
  
He doesn’t get a chance to finish his order. The demon intruder whirls around to face him, hissing with a bloodied mouth and a single hole puncturing its mask gushing oily black. In a blur of splintered feathers, the demon closes the gap between itself and Dante. He’s happy to meet it. Adrenaline surges brilliant in his veins; a rage that he hasn’t felt in _years_ has him on a warpath. Its huge body tackles against his with enough force to throw even his triggered form backwards. They both go sprawling ass-over-teakettle into the destroyed living room and Dante swears when he hits the window. It gives instantly.  
  
But he doesn’t fall.  
  
Something snakes around his wrist, keeping him tethered in place as glass rains and shatters against the ground outside. A tendril of liquid ruby glowing dimly within, the last exhausted embers of energy, wrapping up his arm and around the neck of his foe. Briefly his eyes flick back and fall on Aster, her hair stretched outward to ensnare the both of them. In the gray light streaming through broken windows, he can see the other fresh wounds maring her arms and legs alongside the hideous bite torn into her shoulder. She looks dazed, exhausted, body half-leaned against the wall, but her jaw locked tight.  
  
With a great deal of effort, there’s a last pulse of faded light. Like a spider cocooning its prey, the bourn of her hair surges over the demon’s body to wrap up any problematic limb. It shrieks again, painfully louder than its partner, and thrashes hard enough that its bindings almost give beneath the sudden force. Aster digs her nails into the drywall to stay standing. Stay conscious.  
  
_“KILL THE WITCH- KILL- KILL-”  
  
_ “Dante-!”  
  
He doesn’t need to be told. He swings Rebellion up and the arc it follows cleaves a violent line into the thing’s body. Splatters of black paint across the floors, on the walls, even up to the ceiling. He’s nearly bisected it in a stroke. Aster’s hair slithers to her, a broken rubber band devoid of energy, and she slides down to the ground. No chance to check on her. He has to follow it up. The demons reels, its shrieks growing louder, its hands clawing toward Dante even as its body teeters on the brink of sliding in half.  
  
_“KILL THE WITCH- TAKE THE BOY-”  
  
_ And then he runs it through. Into the center of the chest, all the way to the skull of Rebellion’s hit. Whatever these things are, they’re sturdy. It takes an absurd amount of force to wrench the blade inside it and pull upward. The last vestiges of demonic energy powered by his fury get him there, then fade and leave him “human” again.  
  
In the aftermath, the thing gasps and gurgles. Unnatural resilience gives way to weakness as it slowly falls to its knees in front of Dante. Agonized paroxysms of death seize the bulky frame, forces more black blood down its chin. The hole in its mask stares up at him unblinking. He realizes, illuminated now like Aster’s weak figure, that he didn’t hit the eye when he pierced its head. The muted light falls across the slit he cut and illuminates a single, honey-brown iris that twitches and jerks beneath the golden visor. The color and warmth are both too familiar, calling to mind a woman on a park bench gently assuring Aster that not knowing how to sew is fine.  
  
_“Kill… the witch… take … take the boy…”_ It gurgles as ash creeps up its neck. _“Give… back… my babies…”_ No chance for Dante to say anything. No chance to think about what that means. The ash consumes the demon’s head and it crumbles, leaving just him in a column of misty, dying light.  
  
At some point, the bells finally stopped.  
  
“Mom-!” Nero’s voice cuts in, sharp and afraid, and Dante pivot just as the boy stumbles across the room to reach his mom. Aster’s a small heap against the wall and the liquid sheet she weaponizes has returned to red hair splayed across the ground around them. She’s pale to the point of pallor as blood continues to pump out of the bite in her shoulder, pooling beneath twitching fingertips. But her good hand can still come up and cup Nero’s cheek to thumb across the lone cut stretched across his face.  
  
“You okay…?” Tears well up in wide, blue eyes and the only response he can muster is a frantic nod. A weak smile touches the corners of Aster’s mouth. “That’s good… That’s really good…”  
  
“Uncle Dante, _help_ ,” Nero blurts out, his voice climbing as fear escalates into panic. His eyes focus on the tear splitting his mother’s shoulder. Muscle and tissue are exposed and the blood continues to flow. “I don’t- I don’t know what to do-”  
  
_What can an eight year old do,_ asks a small voice as he rushes to sit in front of his… whatever she is to him. His family - half of all he has left. Her bright gaze lifts and Dante watches her vision try to concentrate on him unsuccessfully. It slips in and out of focus, sways off to the side. Stop the bleeding. She doesn’t heal. They don’t heal. What could an eight year old do?  
  
“Go get a towel from the bathroom,” he orders. His voice lacks the strength from before. But his nephew nods anyways, scrawny legs carrying him in a desperate scramble across the room. Aster tries to turn her head back to watch him go, but there’s not enough strength in her arms to keep her up. She topples forward and Dante’s there to grab her, wrapping his arms around her back and pulling her in close. All of her weight settles against his chest. He wants to think of anything but how cold she feels.  
  
“...Dante, I’m…”  
  
“Hey, not... not right now, okay? Don’t even worry about it,” he mutters as her face slides into the crook of his neck. The gaps in her breaths get wider. “Just sit tight. Everything’s gonna be-”  
  
“Vergil…” His twin’s name falls out of her mouth in agony, as painful as the wound draining her of life. “We were so stupid…” A broken laugh bubbles out of her throat. The sound breaks halfway through and turns weak and choked. She presses deeper into Dante as the last of her strength finally slips and she slumps in his hold.  
  
“...so, so stupid…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll be ok. Mostly.


	11. Journals 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://radioinactivity.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/radioinactivity/) if you want to talk DMC or fanfic or whatever.

When was the last time someone touched you warmly? You react to it so strangely. At once wanting to draw away and then desperate to chase after my palm. I touch your cheek, you sink into it, but look guilty as you do. Is it so wrong to desire comfort? To be held? I’ve never had that either. We’re very selfish people, you and I. Ending the world to satisfy our own whims is nothing but. So touch me selfishly and let me do the same for you.

\--

_April 21, 19X2  
_ Vergil’s stayed the last few days after settling some business with Arkham. (Business meaning, in part, getting me a check.) It’s been nice. Better than nice, it’s comfortable. Maybe the first time I’ve ever felt truly comfortable in this house. It feels like my home now; not just a space I reclaimed from my mother.  
  
He comes and goes like a moody cat but always returns at night. And like a cat, sometimes he’s carting some gift. Usually things that I am fairly certain he’s stolen from the Archives using that odd teleportation of his. Books about Sparda, about the war, even artifacts that he finds curious. Of course, I make sure he returns them before they’re missed. It wouldn’t do to end up burned on a stake somewhere in the mountains. But I don’t quite mind either. Having another person who _wants_ to consume this kind of information so voraciously is liberating. I’ve been alone for so long. I forgot the pleasure of good company.  
  
The only thing I _do_ mind is that he keeps distracting me from my notes! Documenting my research - getting any research done, period - is a hassle. He doesn’t see the point of it. Someday he’s going to wish my genius was written down for reference. Let’s hope he doesn’t notice those lines waxing on how beautiful he is.  
  
For the record: made little progress on the remaining seals. Banquo Harbor’s thawed out though, so there’s hope that soon I’ll have further information to work with. He’s leaving in the morning. I told him I’m eager to see his sketches. His ears turned pink. It’s cute.  
  
_April 23, 19X2_  
He kissed me yesterday as he was leaving. It was automatic, thoughtless. I put his notebook in his hands and he bent down and kissed me like it was the most natural thing in the world and all I could do was gawk at him. At least he seemed as shocked as me. Left in a hurry after that. I haven’t gotten any work done since.  
  
~~I mean  
~~~~That isn’t  
~~~~We’ve already  
  
~~ Why am I so flustered by this?! We’ve had sex! And he kisses me then and we both understand that it isn’t a big deal. It’s what people do and neither of us have any compunctions. We wake up the next morning, we go through our day, and we do not bring it up. We’re partners. This is just a more unique factor to our arrangement. It doesn’t mean anything.  
  
~~~~It was so gentle  
  
Stop making a big deal out of it. It was a misstep. There are things to do and I shouldn’t be using my notebooks for girlish diary entries anyways! Ridiculous.  
  
Addendum: 2AM. Can’t sleep. House smells of those damn cigarettes of his and I keep thinking he’ll crawl into bed at any moment but he doesn’t and it’s keeping me awake. I miss him. How annoying.

\--

_May 4, 19X2  
_ Called me from his hostel up north. Nice to hear his voice. Did not bring up the kiss - fine by me, I’m perfectly content pretending it didn’t happen. More importantly: couldn’t locate the seal where I approximated. There was an old shrine where the records said it should be but it’s just a collapsed cathedral. No seal - he can sense it, another benefit of the blood. (How many of those are there?) It’s fine. Minor setback. There’s a whole host of war ruins in the hills surrounding the harbor. One of them must have something.  
  
_May 7, 19X2  
_ Do I have to go up there to find the damn thing myself? Is he stupid? It _has_ to be there.  
  
I’ve been sick all week. This is the last thing I need to deal with.  
  
_May 10, 19X2  
_ There’s no seal in Banquo Harbor.  
  
What did I get wrong? Am _I_ stupid? There’s too many variables to take into account. The first three were correct but what makes those right and the fourth wrong? And how can it be wrong at all? If a seal’s bounding points are equidistant then that is immutable! Each point _has_ to fall within a certain range away from the other. The attendant’s notes were clear. “Six crests of my lord’s power do yet bind the edifice within limbo’s embrace.”  
  
Unless my hypothesis for the shape of the seal was wrong. In which case, I’m basically at square one and  
  
And I just puked so I guess I’m seeing a doctor tomorrow.  
  
_May 12, 19X2  
_ I’m pregnant. Five weeks.  
  
_May 13, 19X2  
_ Spent the better part of 24 hours panicking. Wish I could say it’s subsided, but there’s no point to lying to myself. Gone a bit numb. It will hit me again later and the cycle will repeat until it sinks in.  
  
Must be a bad joke. A homunculus having a baby shouldn’t be possible. Nothing like this has ever happened - I checked. Tore apart the study looking for another example but no. Mother was exactly as brilliant as the histories said. She made a body utterly indistinguishable from human flesh hewn out of mud and blood and bone. Something that can live and die and bleed and _have children._ Always called me her ideal form. A masterpiece. Yet again she’s getting the last laugh. Well, which of us is dead?  
  
Ugh.  
  
What do I do? I just turned nineteen, I can’t  
  
Do I even tell Vergil? Would he care? He’s so focused on the Tower. God, the Tower. I’ve barely thought about it. Should I stop? I don’t want to quit. Setbacks or no, this is something I’m driven to see through to the end. Two worlds reunited, the way things were 2000 years ago, a change in the status quo that began with _me_. My proof that I can outwit my mother.  
  
So then do I give him up?  
  
Him. Already so sure he’s a boy, am I? And now I’m crying. God damnit.  
  
_May 14, 19X2_  
Selfishly, I want to keep him. Despite everything, even knowing that I won’t stop my work, I want to keep him. How could I not? I grew up thinking I was disposable. There’s no way I could discard any child of mine to feel the same. And whatever happens, happens. I’ll keep him safe.   
  
Now it’s just a matter of telling Vergil. He’s supposed to be back tonight.  
  
Addendum: “This won’t change anything,” he said once the deer-in-headlights shock wore off. More sentimental than I expected, which is to say “the bare minimum.” But he wasn’t angry. And he came to bed. Sleeping next to me as I write and god, I really did miss this. He’s warm in a way I’m not. A touch of hell in him, maybe, but welcome since I’m always so cold. Strange to think I’m having his child. We’ve only known each other a few months but… it doesn’t sound so bad.

\--

_Jun. 1, 19X2  
_ The thought occurs that it will be hard, if not impossible, to sneak into the Archives once I start showing. Hopefully I’ll have figured out the seal configuration before then. I’m still in shock that this is a problem I’ll have to manage at all. I have no idea what I’m going to do with the house. (Cleaning it would be a start.) There’s no space for baby.  
  
If all else fails, I guess I can send Vergil to steal the books I need. He’s acting as my “assistant” again and is just as annoyed by it as always. At least I can play the baby angle. Swear he was muttering something about how his mother would kill him.  
  
I wonder what she was like? What she was really like. Sparda and his wife visited our house once before, but I was young - five or six maybe - and mother squirreled me off so I couldn’t get under the adults’ feet. Barely remember it. The only thing I recall is that she was very pretty. Obviously there was greater depth to her in order to inspire such devotion. Can’t imagine. All I ever got from mine is terror.  
  
He’s noticing the shift in my mood. Keep seeing him looking my way as he flips through books. The last thing I want to do is tell him I’m thinking of our mothers. Is this a mistake? Having a baby when the two of us are such a mess?  
  
_Jun. 3, 19X2_  
What an awkward man I’m entangled with. He’s aloof and quiet, and I wonder if the only thing concerning him is the Tower, and then I come out to the balcony this morning and there’s a new journal waiting for me. He says it’s a blank he found on a shelf but he’s a poor liar. I’ve never seen this before and despite what a trainwreck the house is, I am well aware of each book within it. (Approximately.) I told him so; he bristled. He really is a tomcat. It’s charming.  
  
Suppose this will be the one that gets me through the final leg of this project and this pregnancy. Though if he teases me for always writing again, I’m going to use it to bludgeon his face in. He smiled after I told him that. Annoying. Handsome and annoying.

\--

_Jun. 30, 19X2  
_ If I have to look at another seal configuration, I’m going to tear my eyes out. There were leads, a few I even sent Vergil to check on, but no hits. Which of our parents is responsible for this? Because I _know_ where my mother’s buried and I _will_ dig her skeleton up to crush her skull out of spite. I need a final point of data to narrow my options. There are so many seals with three evenly spaced points, maybe thousands. I need to go back over my original notes and Vergil’s drafts. There’s got to be something I’m missing.  
  
I’m starting to show. Just a little. A woman at the grocery called it a baby bump and I felt I’d die of embarrassment. Is that normal? People commenting on your body because you’re pregnant? I’m making Vergil get my food from now on.  
  
_July 1, 19X2_  
Cut my hand today on an artifact a client asked me to decipher. (Routine commission work to keep the lights on. Must append the translations later.) Something sharp buried under the lip of the urn, probably to ward off would-be thieves a long time ago. Nothing severe - maybe two inches long, not very deep in my right palm. Will heal quickly and since it wasn’t my dominant hand, my work won’t be affected. Essentially a nonissue but Vergil seemed so disturbed by it.   
  
A bit messy but I’ve always bled too much. Thinner blood, I think. It looked far worse than it was. But he grew tense and quiet, barely said anything as he helped me bandage it up. Stared at the cut hard. Studying it? Surely he’s no stranger to blood. His sword has seen plenty of use.  
  
He told me, “I forgot how human you are.”

\--

_July 10, 19X2  
_ First kick today and I’m alone. Almost got emotional about it - and to be sure, it is a milestone and experiencing it by myself is discouraging - but I must remember that Vergil isn’t here because I sent him away on another goose chase. We are still in the business of looking for Temen-ni-gru’s seals, after all. If my research has led me in the right direction, this could be a breakthrough. As I’ve said over and over - I just need one more point of data. Maybe we’ll find it in Tsesari and get back on track. (Well, maybe _he_ will. I’m staying right here, a comfortable distance from the action.)  
  
Still. Would have liked for him to be here so I could see his reaction. If he’d react at all. It was a tiny stir, the barest movement, and I could almost see him being unimpressed. It’s actually funny to imagine. Scornful of his unborn son with that so-serious look on his face.  
  
He doesn’t quite believe me when I say the baby is a boy. Seems amused by the idea of a witch’s intuition. But I can sense it and certainly don’t need any mainland doctor to tell me. Some nights I dream about him. About the three of us. Somewhere far away from everything and safe. Waking up from those is when I miss Vergil the most.  
  
I wish he’d kiss me the way he did that night. Since I told him about the baby, things have cooled off between us. Or changed, I guess. They had to. He still sleeps in my bed but all I want is to wake up with our legs tangled together the way we used to.  
  
God, that’s way too sentimental. I need to rewrite this whole page. These journals _used_ to be for research.  
  
_July 12, 19X2  
_ Called me from his hostel, says he can feel something beneath the city. Tsesari was the staging point for a massive battle of the rebellion, according to mother’s records, and the entire city was cratered in the aftermath. They built anew on top of the wreckage but left the foundations and ancient waterways of the city intact. If he’s sensing something in the middle of a busy port town, then this might be what we’re hunting for.  
  
And I told him about the kick. He was quiet for a while and I worried that maybe I shouldn’t be burdening him with thoughts of the baby when he’s out in the field. Then he said, “That’s earlier than most, right? That’s good. A sign he’ll be strong.”  
  
_July 15, 19X2  
_ That’s four done. No curses this time.  
  
He says he took plenty of notes for me. There was a mural, similar to what was in the first but intact, that he copied down. I can’t wait to see it. He never lets me look at what he draws unless it’s “work” related. (Though I’ve spied him scratching away while he thinks I’m sleeping.)  
  
We’re so close. I keep thinking of how things will change. It’s exciting.  
  
_July 19, 19X2  
_ Vergil got into town late, on the last boat, and he’s quieter than usual. That’s such a cliche, isn’t it? _Dear Prudence, I think the father of my son is cheating on me but we’re not even together!_ No, I’m not that self-absorbed.  
  
Besides this is a different kind of moodiness. He kept asking if everything was alright - no strange occurrences or odd customers, no one gone missing from town. There’s scuffs on his coat and blood splatter on his boots. A fight, perhaps even an ambush. This has happened before in his coming and going. His enemies abound, apparently, but he tends to shrug the encounters off. Mostly seems annoyed by the filth left on his clothes. Tonight is different. Had his hands on my shoulders, looking me over? I had to assure him, over and over really, that I was fine. We were fine.  
  
And then he kissed my forehead and excused himself to go smoke.  
  
I can see him from the window of my study - leaning on the balcony railing, lighting another cigarette. There must be a lot on his mind if he’s having a second. What does he see when he looks at me? Not a burden, I hope. A partner? There are times I look at him and “partner” still isn’t enough. There’s more I want from him, and in the deepest part of my heart, I hope he thinks the same.  
  
Another kick. Sensing my restlessness? Once he finishes that cigarette, I’ll go see him. Can’t have smoke around a baby.

\--

_July 23, 19X2  
_ The doctor introduced me to my midwife today. Surprisingly she’s from the Order. Obviously they’re a common sight in the Harbor District, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard of any of them interacting with us medically. Don’t believe it’s forbidden but certainly frowned upon.  
  
But Stella seemed very nice. She’s married to that Order captain who occasionally brings me work. I think they live right on the district border? Either way, I like her. No commenting on how young I am to be having a baby, no awkward silence at the idea that his father was often away on business, and she believes my knowing it’s a boy. She tells me she’s delivered dozens of babies. Some mothers sense it immediately. Mind you, she said it was divine insight from their Lord but there are plenty of ways to interpret “intuition.” I made very sure not to mention _who_ my son’s father is.  
  
Vergil wasn’t around for it. He’s gone again. These weeks when he’s away for secret reasons confound me. Sometimes it’s to deal with Arkham, others he insists he just has to leave. And he never wants to go, I can sense it in the way he holds onto me at night. It’s as though a compulsion comes over him, some paranoia that he refuses to explain. I can see it under the surface even as his expression remains placid. Once, after a few bottles of wine long before I was pregnant, he told me he’s uncomfortable staying in one place for too long. But Temen-Ni-Gru would fix that. Somehow.  
  
But the hurt is still there for me. And the loneliness. If he isn’t dealing with Arkham or the seals, then he should stay here. The emptiness of his absence can be unbearable. I’ve gotten too used to mornings on the balcony, to long conversations about research and books and demons, to having a warm body pressed against me in bed. To the comfortable quiet of someone you love sharing a space with you.  
  
Oh. “Someone you love.”  
  
Well, that’s a problem.

\--

_Aug. 1, 19X2  
_ Harbor District’s summer bazaar was today. Dragged Vergil with me to take a break from the work. Of course he hated it but he caved to my demand that he accompany me faster than I expected. Best not to overthink it - it was nice to see him dressed casually for once. He’s started keeping clothes here. We almost looked like normal people. Even let me hold his arm on the walk there after I whined that my back hurt specifically because of _his_ baby. It’s funny to watch him bristle up. Further evidence that he’s some kind of unique cat? Maybe I should be studying him instead.  
  
It was nice to walk around arm-in-arm with him. Felt like we were together instead of whatever the hell we actually are. His hand on my wrist the whole time was nice. Letting me handle the socializing seemed to be a relief for him too. He’s not inept in conversation but I get the sense that interacting with the world exhausts him. Though he’d die before he admitted that kind of weakness.  
  
Oh, but he bought me something! More paranormal things to go in my collection! I’ve completely neglected it since I met him. Buying charming supernatural kitsch feels a little pointless when you’re planning a total upheaval of the established order but a haunted polaroid one-shot is too quaint to pass up. Vergil thinks it’s silly, and it might be, but it’s also a simple, fun kind of silly. Utterly harmless compared to curses and demon ambushes and the end of the world as we know it. Who wouldn’t be a little drawn to the idea of a woman’s scorn leaving a psychic imprint on a mundane camera?  
  
I’ve been taking pictures all day. No ghostly visage of a mourning woman. But I did get one of him sitting by the living room window that I love. Managed to catch him smiling, so naturally he wants me to throw it out. Never happening. He looks comfortable, as much a resident of the house as I am. Maybe someday that will be true.

\--

_Aug. 10, 19X2_  
My research is a mess. I’ve had so much else on my mind. The fourth seal clarified things and yet I still can’t organize my thoughts on the work. Exhaustion’s kept me in the bed the last three days - something the doctor says is common, though not usually in the second trimester. I can still work while laid up, have Vergil bring me what I need from my study, but that doesn’t make me any less scatterbrained. These last two seals are absolutely crucial. And I believe I know how to find both.  
  
Where to start? The shape of the Major Seal is unique to Sparda, something either he or my mother concocted. It’s gone unused before or since and keeps Temen-Ni-Gru trapped in the boundary between our world and the underworld. I thought it was a standard hexastral because those initial three points were evenly spaced. But now I see that the shape is unique to channel potent active energies from southern leylines so they can bind to serene magicks in the north. They chose sites from the war because they knew those would have closed hellgates and then created the seal around those criteria. They worked backwards from their desired effect. Magic of this type doesn’t exist anymore - lost to the ages intentionally. If no one knows about it then the Tower can never rise. But they underestimate me.  
  
Vergil’s drafts of the interior of the seals has been indispensable. I could never go there myself, especially not in my current state, but the clues to the shape of this thing are hidden in the walls. The magic has to be channeled from the seal and out into the mantle, following commands carved into stone. Decipher the commands and you decipher where that energy is being sent. That’s why it’s taken so long. Part of the reason, anyways.  
  
It’s clever. I hate being reminded that my mother was an unmatched intellect but I have to give credit where it’s due. The scope of the Tower requires a massive amount of cthonic energies to keep it in limbo. Once it’s released, all of that will spill out onto the world. Complete chaos. Fatigued as I am, the thought occurs that I’m bringing a baby into a world that I will have personally disrupted. Should I feel guiltier? All I feel is certainty that I can protect my son anything.  
  
Now if I could only think of a good name. Can't stand anything neither suggested to me (Stella keeps giving me names the Order would approve of and I don't know how to tell her how awkward that would be for us) nor anything I come up with on my own. And Vergil just shrugs every time I ask. So helpful.

\--

_Aug. 20, 19X2  
_ Ever since the doctor ordered me on bed rest, Vergil isn’t sleeping. He’s never been much for it to begin with - coming to bed far later than me and always the first to rise, going nights without sleeping at all - but it runs deeper than simple insomnia. I’ll wake alone and hear him pacing downstairs. I go to him, try to convince him to talk, and he buttons up. Lies and says he’s fine. His mind is on his mother at least some of the time. I remember his nightmares from his curse. Those haven’t gone away. They were probably always there, albeit less violent. Instead of screaming, he’ll jerk awake at night. Sometimes it wakes me, sometimes I’ll come around at dawn to find him reading.  
  
We’re really a pair, huh. Mine haven’t gone away either. I guess the difference is the guilt or lack thereof. He feels as if it’s his fault and is ashamed. But his aren’t always of his mother either. There are nights he’ll wake in a cold sweat and I’ll feel him touch me. A hand on my shoulder or against my neck. Asking if I’m okay and leaving me wondering what that nightmare was. Waiting for the day he’ll talk to me about it. Until then, he lays awake with his forehead in my hair and acts like nothing happened the next morning.  
  
He’s packing up to leave. The fifth is far south and that means I won’t see him for weeks. I want to tell him how I feel but … It’s pathetic, but I’m scared. Better to long for an eternity than be rejected, right?  
  
_Aug. 21, 19X2_  
Kissed me again when he left. This time I think he meant to do it.

\--

_Sept. 16, 19X2_  
Late December can’t come fast enough. Spend every day laid up in bed and sleeping there becomes impossible. 1AM and I’m writing. At this point, it’s for the comfort of familiarity. Things have changed so much in the last year. Can’t even pretend that this notebook is only for my work, not when the physical journal itself is so important. It’s a gift from the person I love. I guess it’s only natural to pour so much of myself into it.  
  
Someone I love. Called it a problem once and I guess it is. It certainly complicates things but considering I’m having his son, we’re well beyond “complicated.” There’s never been anyone who I’ve felt this way for. In all my years on Fortuna, since I was fifteen, I’ve lived on my own and it never has bothered me. The solitude can be a little cold but it was the price I was willing to pay to feel free. I used to tell myself that I was a clay doll, going through the motions to mimic being human, and it was my way to cope with inevitable death at mother’s hands. After all, if you don’t think you’re alive, then you can’t be afraid to die. He shifted everything. Filled a space I didn’t know existed. Gave me someone who I want to see, to talk to, to hold every day. Reminded me that I am a living thing.  
  
And it’s a nightmare because what was once comfortable solitude has become an aching sense that my home is incomplete without him. I was convinced I had no future and used it as a convenient excuse to drift through life as an observer. Now my future is staring me in the face - a half-finished crib by my bed, the swell of my stomach, the occasional kick to remind me the baby’s there - and I’m excited for it but until Vergil stays it won’t be right.

\--

_Oct. 10, 19X2  
_ Vergil came back last night - no scuffs or fussing this time. Actually in a better mood than I expected. Things are falling into place and I suppose even he has to lighten up in the face of it. Of course, we didn’t talk about that last kiss either. But he brought gifts with him to apologize for his weeks away. Not that he called them that. He insists the food is leftovers from what he bought for himself, nevermind none of it’s opened. The blanket he simply refuses to acknowledge while his ears burn. Ridiculous, wonderful man.  
  
Right now, he’s off… “borrowing” a few important tomes from the Archives. Just as I suspected, my red dress won’t remotely fit with my being so far along. There’s no blending in with the worshippers to sneak through the back for me. Oh well. Never liked it. And while I wait, I can study what he recorded. As always, his handwriting is indecipherable, his art immaculate. I peeked at the page behind his “work” drafts (forgive me!) and he’s filled it with sketches of whatever’s caught his eye. Flowers, a train engine, Yamato, clouds over a tree line. They’re like photos. Did he teach himself? Maybe someday I’ll get the story. Baby steps.  
  
_Oct. 11, 19X2  
_ Stuck in bed yet again while I work. Windows open to let in the fresh air and still feel weak. My energy’s come back to a degree but my body has no strength in it. Going up and down the stairs too quickly leaves me lightheaded. Vergil had to help me back up after breakfast. My body might not be as suited to having children as I thought. Suppose if I live through this, I can survive anything.  
  
_Oct. 12, 19X2  
_ When he brought me the books I needed from the Archives, he had something of his own under his arm. He thumbs through it while I work and I think he reads it to avoid sleeping. In that haze where I’m only half awake, I can hear pages turning and him muttering to himself. But the book’s cover is blank, black leather bound, and he’s cagey as always about its contents. This morning on the balcony I managed to peek over his shoulder.  
  
The Collected Works of William Blake. Poetry. He always finds new ways to surprise me. How wrong was my read on him when we met? Still the type to take action without hesitation but so much more than that, simply too proud - or perhaps self conscious? - to admit it. I’ve personally never been able to appreciate poetry but I asked him to read a few to me. Coming from his mouth might make me see the appeal.  
  
After the Tower, he said. Smiled as he did - though he tried to hide it. If we manage to pull this off, he says he’ll read to me as much as I want.  
  
(And no, he does not like the name William. Thank god.)  
  
_Oct. 18, 19X2  
_ Once you know the trick, deciphering seals from the information given is easy. Strange to think I’m solving a two thousand year old puzzle, but is this not exactly why I agreed to work with him in the first place? A chance to learn knowledge kept hidden from the rest of the world. Seeing it laid out, every map and sigil and page of meticulous sketches, is deeply satisfying. Often I question why I ended up pursuing the same field as my mother. Then things such as this are presented to me and I understand. She must have felt the same elation. Chasing that high for two thousand years must be what drove her mad.  
  
There’s only one problem - it went too smoothly. I was hoping it would take me another two, three weeks at minimum. Vergil will almost certainly set out again as soon I as I tell him that it’s done. This is the last, after all. But it’s just as far away as the prior and in the most selfish corner of my heart, I don’t want him to leave and be gone for so long again. Barely had him back for a week. Is it so much to ask for a little more time?  
  
_Oct. 19, 19X2  
_ I lied. Told him I would need a couple of days. Fairly sure he can tell but … Mercifully, he said nothing. Convinced him that I’m too sickly and bed-ridden to finish putting the crib together. (It’s true! Mostly!) So he did it. Funny to watch him scowl endlessly at the instructions. Highlight of the evening: him pitching them halfway across the room, then have to get up to retrieve them. He’s more human than he realizes, I think.  
  
And now he’s telling me to put the journal away. Wants company out on the balcony (not that he’ll say so).  
  
Addendum: Told me he knows it’s done. Asked me to give him the location so he can go tomorrow. I got mad, raised my voice. Shouldn’t have but what would it hurt him to spend another week here? With us? Of course, he shuts down on me. Doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing and disengages instead. I should tell him and get it over with. Maybe then he’d understand why I’m so upset.  
  
_Oct. 20, 19X2_  
He left this morning. Apologized before he did. This time, I kissed him and he didn’t object. I should have told him then, but I froze.

\--

Tired. Tired tired tired. Never leaving my bed, always sleeping unless Stella’s around. No more research, no more work, nothing to keep me occupied. Having strange dreams - not nightmares, not exactly. Just odd. I’m on the edge of the shadow of Temen-Ni-Gru and the shadow is as deep as the sea and Vergil is there in the depths of it. And then it swallows him up and I wake. Well, I “wake.” Aware but feeling like I’m still in a dream. Even writing this is surreal. I can see myself from outside my body. Exhausting. I’m starting to worry something’s wrong, but the baby keeps kicking and stirring, energetic as always. My single spark of optimism that cuts through the cloud settled in my brain. Can’t wait to meet him... if I make it.

\--

**12 November 19X2**  
Can’t believe you’re making me do this. Nearly bleed to death having a child and still you insist that someone make an entry for today. Well, here I am. What am I even expected to write?  
  
4lbs 3oz. 18 inches long. Born on a moonless night, so you name him Nero. Clever. It’s a good name.  
  
And he’s six weeks early.  
  
Somehow breathing on his own. The doctor says it’s a “miracle” but there’s no such thing. Devil’s blood won’t allow a Son of Sparda to die so easily. And yet he’s so small. It hasn’t quite sunk in yet that he is mine, that I have a son, though he certainly looks it - white hair, blue eyes. Already reluctant to leave your side. He wouldn’t stop crying while I held him and I cannot fault him for that. Once he was next to you, all was right with the world.  
  
And you… you’re passed out right now. The midwife says to let you rest as much as possible. You’re still so pale, though not as bad as before. Then you were almost completely white. I was so sure you were going-  
  
We have the same blood type. If I was even an hour later getting back, you’d be dead. I had no idea a transfusion between us would even work. I don’t know what you’ll remember - you were completely delirious through the entire procedure. Never been relieved to have another human in the room until that midwife of yours. I hate that I had no idea what to do. That I was functionally helpless. She knew how to calm you down, keep you talking.  
  
And you did talk. Extensively. About your mother, the baby, and us. How much you miss me. How it isn’t the same without me here.  
  
You told me-  
  
No, that’s not for these pages, is it? I suspect you’ll recall what you said once you read this.  
  
But the two of you are alive. Somehow. Sleeping together while I stay up, yet again, unable to rest, waiting for something to go wrong. There are so many things that keep me away from you and I know you want me here. But if I stayed with you the way I am now, it would all repeat. Eventually I would lose the two of you, lose everything again. How could I stay, knowing how it will end? How can I sleep?  
  
You and Nero are here now and I won’t allow any harm to come to either of you. My Father’s power is the only way to ensure that. With it, nothing would dare cross me. So please be patient. The next full moon is in a month. Temen-Ni-Gru will rise and nothing will stop me from taking what’s mine.  
  
And when it’s done, when I return, I’ll stay. I promise.  
  
All my love,  
V


	12. My Brother's Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and commenting and being so patient with this update. This has been a wonderful experience.

The clock on the wall is unbearably loud.  
  
It tick-tock-ticks into the stagnant silence of the tiny bedroom like a metronome. An overwhelming urge to chuck it out the lone open window sweeps over Dante and the only thing that stays his hand is, ironically, the time. With another loud _tock_ the minute hand nudges forward and falls onto 2:30AM. He’d wake the whole block and, for maybe the first time in his life, the last thing he wants is to draw attention to himself. So he opts to settle deeper into a lumpy, overstuffed chair and rubs at a vein below the inside of his elbow for what must have been the hundredth time that night.  
  
Had it really been almost twelve hours? Time slipped away from him, replaced by frantic flashes of blood and panic. When he tries to recall everything that happened, it returns in murky snapshots he’s detached from. Someone else wrapping up torn and bloody flesh in a bath towel, telling his nephew everything would be okay, making a nigh incoherent phone call to the only doctor in the Harbor District that he’d been made aware of. He doesn’t remember the physical act of rushing through barren backstreets, but every time he closes his eyes, he can see his boots striding across cobblestone. None of that had been the Dante he knows he is. He’s pretty sure it was the version of himself that sent him running into the night until his legs gave out when his home burned some nineteen years ago. The oldest instincts that never failed him.  
  
All he knew was that half a day had vanished and dropped him into a bedroom at the back of a clinic that was more of a glorified closet. At least it was finally quiet. The warning bells tolling demons in the city had stopped, as had the chaos of Order Knights sweeping the district for any additional creatures hours too late. For a while there, it seemed like some aggressive young guard was banging on the front office’s door to demand a status check every ten minutes. Each of them had been told off by the old doctor who ran the joint. Disturbing sleeping patients, he said.  
  
That’s when his dazed attention falls on the bed he sits next to. There’s Nero on the side nearest the window - curled into a ball beneath a heavy blanket, young face twitching in and out of a scowl as he dreams. It took hours, plus Dante swearing that he would stay up and keep watch, for Nero to let himself sleep. Before then, he’d resisted aching exhaustion to stay awake with tearful eyes staring helplessly at his mother laid out beside him.  
  
Save for the gentle rise and fall of her chest, Aster is motionless beneath clean sheets. It’s a far cry from the state she was in during those disjointed hours since the attack. At first so pale and cold from blood loss that he thought they’d lost her at a few points, then feverish, almost incoherent when the doctor set to stitching her shut. Murmuring in unconsciousness, grasping at his sleeve, crying out for him, for Nero. Sometimes for his brother in a voice so soft and sad that he felt he was hearing something he shouldn’t. And the whole time, too much blood poured out across the sheets, until she was almost gray.  
  
Dante scratches again at the spot beneath his elbow. It doesn’t hurt - never did, he’s been stabbed with too many things too many times to be bothered by a _needle_ \- but there’s a ghost itch that won’t go away. An IV was hooked up between the two of them and for what might have been minutes or hours (he honestly can’t say which), his blood flowed into Aster until color blushed her cheeks. Half-demon blood for a homunculus who is “functionally human” and it worked.  
  
The doctor, totally unaware of his heritage, knew it would without checking because it happened before. Aster never told him that his nephew was born six weeks early. She never told him it almost killed her. The only reason she survived was because of a twin who he loved and resented in equal measure. Without Vergil, Dante wouldn’t have either of them. Aster would be gone, the little townhouse at the end of the alley left empty, and Nero would have been left in the care of a cult of maniacs. He’d never know either of them existed.  
  
And then that spot itches again.  
  
Aster’s skin is a shade lighter, though not the terrifying ashen tone it had before, and her lips are dry. White bandages are wrapped tight around her shoulder, down her arm, up her neck. The wound beneath will undoubtedly leave a heinous scar.  
  
But she’s alive now because of something him and Vergil both did. She’s not his mother, she made that plenty clear four months ago, but the sense of getting something right this time washes over him anyways. A knot of tension almost twenty years old unties inside his ribcage. He can breathe. His vision clouds, eyes burn, and he swears under his breath, digging the heels of both palms into them.  
  
“You crying for me…?”  
  
His hands yank away from his face and his attention snaps to the bed to meet a familiar golden gaze. Dark blotches of shadow hang under her eyes; he can’t think of a time she’s looked so exhausted. It’s like she’s on the verge of passing back out at any moment, keeping conscious with sheer willpower alone. A weak smile tugs across her lips as he scrubs at his eyes again.  
  
“Sh’yeah right. You just caught me in a yawn.” She doesn’t believe him, but is gracious enough to not say anything. Her left hand raises to attempt to pat his knee and pain spikes up her arm. Her smile turns into a twisted grimace and her other hand flies to clutch at her bandaged shoulder, collapsing deeper into the pillows piled around her. “Woah-woah- easy- easy, don’t- don’t move-” He’s already on his feet to coax her into staying put. “You want me to go get th-”  
  
“No. No, I- I just… I need a minute,” she replies through clenched teeth. The pain persists until sweat beads on her forehead and her breathing comes out heavier. Her left hand fingers twitch where they lie upturned on top of the sheet - the extent of the motion she can allow. The seconds become a minute, then two, and Aster peers down her right side as she waits. None of the commotion woke Nero, but he has scooted closer to her as he slept so his back is against her side. “Is… is he okay…?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dante answers, settling into his chair. “Just a little scuffed up - more scared than hurt.”  
  
The visible flood of relief that washes over Aster seems to alleviate some of her pain. Her furrowed brow softens, her jaw relaxes, and her expression grows soft. A weak, shaking right hand musters the strength to reach out and lay on top of her son’s head. Dante watches wordlessly, taking in the sight of bruised fingers brushing gently through feathery white hair.  
  
“So… what happened…?” she asks without taking her attention away from Nero. “I remember you killing that thing and then… Nothing.”  
  
The laugh that huffs out of Dante is humorless and he drops his head to look at the ceiling. “You passed out.” Aster nods in understanding, to his amusement. “And we carried you here. Thought you were gone a couple times. Nearly bled out but uh…” His head swivels to her and he points to her bandaged arm. Alongside the long strips of linen, there’s a much smaller round band-aid, a punchline for an unfunny joke. “Did you know we-”  
  
“-Have the same blood type,” Aster finishes. The words are quiet, murmured in a tone so even that he thinks she must be reciting something. “...did the doctor tell you about the night Nero was born…?” Tension spreads in his chest at the melancholy haze sweeping over her but he nods anyways.  
  
“The short version,” he replies. “Nero came early.”  
  
“Back then…” The words trail off and her thought is lost as memory takes over. It occurs to him that they’re about three hours removed from Nero’s birthday. Eight years to the day and she’s in the same position again. “When we were planning to raise the tower, I knew disaster would follow.” As she speaks, her slender fingers keep stroking through her son’s hair, lulling him into a deeper, more peaceful dream. “And I was never afraid. Because we could handle anything, right?”  
  
Misery twists her brow even as the corners of her mouth pull upward. “We were so, so stupid,” she says, repeating her incoherent muttering before she passed out. “I thought I would fare just fine in a world crawling with demons but look - a single ambush nearly killed me. And Vergil…”  
  
There’s his name again, foreign in her voice for how rarely she says it, and Aster hesitates the moment the word slips out, as though she’s realizing the same thing. Scratched fingers lift from Nero’s hair to touch at her lips and her eyelids squeeze shut in a wince. A broken laugh breaks free from her chest then dies as abruptly.  
  
“...he’s never coming back. Is he?”  
  
Silence, crushing and smothering, falls over the pair - even the clock on the wall turns muffled. His breath catches halfway up his throat; he lifts his head up to stare at Aster in shock. Her eyes are open now, turned his way, and she’s smiling without any happiness. It’s the face of bitter resignation, of something she’s known for years and is only now letting herself say out loud. She instantly looks somehow _more_ tired, stretched too thin. Guilt spikes through Dante’s gut as he answers:  
  
“No. I don’t think so.”  
  
He’s known for a while. Accepted it at some point but he couldn’t determine when. Sometimes he thinks about that day Eryn mentioned how his twin hadn’t come up in conversation in months. Over time, he’d gotten used to the absence. The emptiness of being one half of a pair of twins became familiar and eventually that turned into a simple understanding - Vergil was gone. And he was never coming back.  
  
There were days he wanted to shout that at Aster to convince her to get away from the horrorshow Fortuna had slid into. Now the idea of it makes his stomach turn. Of course she knew. He never needed to tell her. Wasn’t he always saying she was smarter than him?  
  
“All I ever wanted...” Her smile crumbles and her lips press together tight. “...All I ever wanted was for him to come home and-”  
  
A crack in her voice stops the words dead, turns them into a weak, choked sound. Again her hand covers her mouth and she bows her head down to hide behind her hair. It doesn’t do anything to conceal the tears rolling down her cheeks.  
  
Dante’s throat constricts the moment it registers. He can’t remember a time she’s ever cried around him. Even the night they met, the first time he crudely blurted out that Vergil was gone, she didn’t shed a tear. Eight years later and she had never let the facade crack and he never realized. She must have wanted to break a thousand times before and kept it in. He thought about those moments he’d catch her by herself, swallowed up in a blanket of her loneliness. Staring across crowds or out the window or at the photo tucked in her notebook without any hope and waiting nonetheless. How often did she _want_ to cry then? Why didn’t he say anything?  
  
That eternal clumsiness, the sense that he can never get the right words out when it would be _important,_ swells in him. He can’t stand it, can’t bear sitting useless as she breaks down. She is small and tired and miserable, sunk deep into herself as her shoulders wrack and her weight crumbles inward. All he can think to do is reach out. His fingers brush against the crook of her neck, a contact so light he doubts it happened, but it’s enough to make Aster turn his way. Heavy tears keep falling down her face and her teeth press firmly into her lower lip to force down more sobs as his palm settles on her neck.  
  
“Dante, I loved him,” she chokes out. “I still… I still…”  
  
Careful to not move her mangled shoulder, he coaxes Aster forward. She offers no resistance and lets herself be guided to lay her forehead on his chest. The hand on her neck moves to cross over her back, wrapping gentle but tight around her far more delicate frame. More of her weight rests against him; her face tucks into his wrinkled shirt. In turn, he shifts his head to rest on top of hers. Ever-shifting, always-expressive strands of red hang limp around her as a curtain, a reflection of her instinct to hide her sadness from the world.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he finally mutters against her scalp. “For… for everything.” What a wide net for ‘everything’ to cover. There was so much to apologize for - the things he said in their argument, and the things he didn’t for years. For everything he should have noticed. Dante doesn’t know where to start. “I’m so, so sorry.”  
  
Aster’s doesn’t respond but her good arm loops around to clutch at his shirt. She sinks more of her weight toward him and he maneuvers to sit on the mattress beside her. Time slips away again. Seconds bleed into minutes into a blur disrupted by the occasional hiccuping sob that gets quieter and quieter until Aster is asleep again and the only sound is the tick-tock-tick of the clock on the wall.

\--

She isn’t in bed when Dante wakes that morning - isn’t in the doctor’s office at all - but that doesn’t ring any alarm bells in his head. Outside, things have settled down and the City Guard hasn’t been by once. Everyone is preoccupied with the aftermath of a demon attack. It’s the stillness after a storm, something he’s seen before. There’s no sixth sense pulling at him to say something’s wrong. He knows Aster well enough to feel comfortable with her sudden disappearance. In fact, he’s got a pretty decent idea of where she went. The only thing that bothers him is knowing that she shouldn’t be on her feet so soon after almost bleeding to death. It’s a pretty good reason to go find her despite his knowing she wants to be alone.  
  
So he wakes Nero, asleep in the same spot he laid the night before, and the boy blinks up at his uncle with big, confused eyes. For a moment, Dante feels as though he’s being sized up. There’s a thoughtfulness to his nephew’s expression that catches him off guard. The stitch in his brow as he processes whatever is going through his head brings his resemblance to Vergil front and center. Like always, it momentarily catches Dante off guard before he reaches out to ruffle the boy’s hair with a half-hearted chuckle.  
  
“C’mon, let’s go check on your mom.”  
  
“I-” Nero starts to protest before his eyes glance away to reconsider his answer. When his attention returns to Dante, he gives a firm nod. “Okay. Do you know where the doctor put my shoes?”  
  
A strange reaction but he doesn’t question it. A kid is allowed their secrets. It’s always been his nephew’s nature to ask whatever is on his mind anyway, after some consideration. Questions will come when they come. The kid swings his skinny legs off the edge of the bed and, after a few minutes of hunting for his sneakers, hurries to wait for his uncle by the door with a resolute look on his little face. Confused but not sure how to broach the nebulous subject, Dante swings on his jacket, tucks Ebony and Ivory into the back of his pants’ waistband, and follows Nero out into the brisk morning air.  
  
The terror from yesterday is completely absent. No bells, no distant shouting, no nerves buzzing from the presence of a demon skulking the streets. Everyone in the district is almost certainly in the process of collecting the dead and cleaning up the carnage left behind or trying to comprehend that it happened at all. It’s almost too beautiful a day to follow so much chaos. The sunlight feels clean and casts the old stones of the city in bright, clear light. Soft winds roll down the alleys and he swears he can even hear music carried from somewhere far away. Down another street, a few doors are open and heavy trunks and cardboard boxes sit on their stoops. More people moving, a catastrophic demon attack the final straw for anyone rational. Nero leans around him to study the scene with his lips pursed. Then they start walking again, as casual as an afternoon stroll through the park.  
  
“What’cha thinkin’, kiddo?” he asks as they round a corner. For once, Nero isn’t holding his uncle’s hand as they walk. Small fists are jammed deep into the pockets of his hoodie and his eyes stare hard at the stones in front of them.  
  
“Mom really loved my dad.”  
  
The last thing he ever expected to come out of his nephew’s mouth. Maybe it's exhaustion, but the question doesn’t throw him as off-kilter as he expected. Instead Dante heaves a long sigh and brings one hand up to scratch at his scruffy jawline. He thinks to the night before, to Aster breaking down so wholeheartedly, and realizes there’s no way Nero would be able to sleep through that.  
  
“You were awake for that, huh.” A small, sheepish nod in response. “Yeah, she did.”  
  
“And that’s why she gets so sad sometimes.”  
  
“Mmhm.”  
  
“What about you?”  
  
Nero asks it without looking Dante’s way and still he gets the sense of being put under a microscope. Neither stop walking as they talk. Navigating Fortuna’s labyrinth of streets becomes a buffer, a way for him to stall as he tries to think of an adequate answer for the boy. His mind wanders to snapshots in time, places he can’t forget. To the top of Temen-ni-gru and a katana stuck through his ribcage; to the mouth of Hell itself and a familiar blue coat vanishing into darkness; to the house in the countryside with enough space to keep two half-blooded kids busy for the rest of their lives and his idiot twin saying he’d rather stay inside and read that stupid book.  
  
The wandering mind stops there and replays those moments the most. The arguing, the hair pulling, the inevitable crying because he felt neglected, and - just as inevitable - Vergil coming outside to where he’d mope beneath the big tree next to the house. Never to apologize but always finding a way to indulge him to make peace. To make him happy.  
  
Dante breathes in deep and wishes for rain.  
  
“Of course I did,” he answers, his voice rougher than he’d like. “He was my big brother. When I was your age, he was my favorite person in the world.”  
  
“So… are you sad like mom too…?”  
  
Dante thinks about how often their weird family unit would be so much better if three were four instead.  
  
“...sometimes.” Finally, Nero lifts his head to stare up at his uncle, jaw trembling, throat tight. It’s almost funny to be on the receiving end of that face for once - usually Aster’s the one to mitigate her son’s fussing. A weak smile cracks across Dante’s face. “But not so much when I’m with you and your mom.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
They emerge on the main road closest to the townhouse. Nothing’s changed since yesterday, save for the blood washed away and bodies removed. Cars are still overturned, the bodega windows still broken. A few locals sit on a balcony far down the block and Dante notices that they, too, seem to be packing up. Other than that, the street is devoid of any activity - no one walking around, no cars coming and going. Nero’s lapsed back into pensive silence with his question answered. Dante assumes the matter is settled, right before a hand wraps around his fingers and squeezes tight.  
  
He’s a good kid.  
  
Dante laughs to himself, ignoring the confusion that earns him from Nero, and leads them both across the desolate streets. The walk home is a short one from there and when they turn the corner to their little backroad, the most attention-grabbing thing is the state of the townhouse. In the morning light, the full extent of the damage becomes painfully apparent.  
  
As he expected, there Aster stands in the center of the destruction on the first floor, her arm in a sling and an oversized cardigan thrown over her shoulders (likely stolen from the doctor’s wife). Transfixed gold eyes survey the damage while her face stays neutral, almost blank. Books thrown out into the street the night before remain untouched, their covers open, their pages flipping in the wind. Old artifacts are scattered and broken on the floor. As Nero and Dante approach, he notices her “haunted” snowglobe has been tossed halfway up the block and its dome is cracked, the water inside long drained. It’s a disaster, so much destruction to clean and repair that it seems impossible.  
  
“Mom!” Nero calls, breaking away from Dante’s side and scrambling to close the distance between them. Aster snaps out of her shocked trance to turn their way, owl-eyed surprise replaced by a warm smile as her son flings his arms around her legs. “You aren’t supposed to be outta bed yet!”  
  
A soft laugh passes through her lips. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to sleep in a stranger’s bed. I got kind of antsy.” With slow, deliberate movements, she eases herself down to kneel on the floor to get at eye-level with Nero. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”  
  
At the same time, Dante is also navigating the rubble and retracing his steps from yesterday. He maneuvers over chunks of drywall and broken glass, hoisting himself up into the demolished shop through the wall where the bay window should have been. Lit up, he can see how much of her extensive collection’s been damaged. No wonder she looked so spaced out when they showed up.  
  
“Damn, what a mess,” he mutters, walking over to the pair. “How you feelin’?”  
  
“Oh, I’m very much looking forward to those painkillers,” she replies with a wry raise of her eyebrows. “This sling is making my neck hurt, too.”  
  
“Ah, can’t relate.” This probably isn’t the best time to be cracking-wise, and he expects an ugly glare, only for Aster to roll her eyes in the barest of unserious annoyance. He’ll take it. Dante’s hands swing up to rest behind his head and he pivots around on his heels to survey the shop once more. “Man, where to even start, huh? Dunno if I can convince Lady to help with this one…”  
  
“About that,” Aster begins. She tucks a lock of deep red behind her ear and drags her fingers down the strands, clearly thinking hard about her next words. Both he and Nero tilt their heads at her like a pair of confused dogs. Slowly she breathes in a deep breath and, after another minute of wordless consideration, focuses on Nero. Like she’s done so many times before, she reaches up to scrub her thumb across his cheek.  
  
“What do you think about moving closer to Uncle Dante?”  
  
Had she turned her head backwards and started speaking in tongues, it would have been less surprising. The only thing either of them can do is gawk at her as Aster’s mouth quirks up in bare amusement. After so many years, Dante can’t wrap his head around her giving up the ghost. She’d been here since she was fourteen, turned this place into a home suited for her and Nero, and been adamant about staying no matter what should Vergil ever come back.  
  
But then he remembers how last night went and everything falls into place.  
  
“Aster, you - you sure…?”  
  
Some of that sadness has swept over her again, visible in the corners of her lips, the way her body tucks inward. She’s quick to shake it off and shrug as best as her wounded shoulder will allow. “It’s up to Nero.” The boy bristles up as he finds himself in a bigger decision-making position than he expected. “I know you’d miss Kyrie, and we can stay if you want, but… I think it’d be good for us.” She hesitates and Dante swears her eyes cut his way for the briefest second. “For all of us.”  
  
“I-It’s okay!” Nero blurts, so sudden that it’s Aster’s turn to be taken aback. “I-I can write Kyrie and…” A nervous heel digs into the floorboards and swings to and fro. Bashful pink rises in his cheeks and some of the fervor in his voice goes soft. “And I want us to live near each other…”  
  
Dante lets himself breathe and then chuckle, though it comes out shakier than he wants. He rakes his hands through his hair as Aster and Nero look his way. All they need now is for him to sign on as well. The answer is obvious but for some reason, he still needs a minute to get the words out. Eventually he comprehends that the lightness in his chest is happiness. Pure and simple.  
  
“Okay. Guess we oughta find a way to make this happen.”

\--

Moving takes some work and more pulled strings, made harder by the fact that Dante won’t... can’t leave Fortuna without them. If the Order tried to send anything else at them with Aster still on the mend and he was gone, it would only end badly. More than a few times, knights would patrol by then quickly turn tail upon seeing Dante working to board up the wrecked windows as Aster supervised. So the organizing has to be done over the phone and really, didn’t he get into devil hunting to avoid these kinds of mundane adult responsibilities?  
  
But eventually, things fall into place. He calls in a few favors from Lady and an old buddy who helped him get the shop a lifetime ago and Aster puts up the money. That might have been the easiest part of the whole fiasco. As it turns out, the townhouse always belonged to her “family” and so there had never been any rent to worry about. All of that spare cash was squirreled away for this exact purpose - for the day they’d be forced to leave the island. Turns out, having a baby at nineteen necessitates a person be a little more forward thinking. Dante can’t even let himself dream of the useless crap he’d waste his money on if he didn’t have to pay rent.  
  
The only thing left is the actual move. Once again, Dante has to beg and plead and guilt-trip Lady into making a final trip to the island (including at least one phone call detailing how completely invalid Aster is, while Aster clumsily loaded books into a box right behind him). Somewhere along the way, Eryn got wrapped up in it too - likely because Lady didn’t want to make the trip to the “weird cult nightmare island” by herself. Though he seems even more uncomfortable with the concept of an entire society devoted to worshiping a demon which, by Dante’s metric, is rational.  
  
The whole, awful process of boxing up a house packed with books and antiques and various cursed accouterments takes nearly three days. Dante always thought the old townhouse was small, but never was it more apparent than when four adults and one rowdy eight year old were trying to navigate around each other. Nights were spent on the couch or on a pallet of blankets on the still-partially-destroyed living room floor. Though that didn’t apply to Lady, who got to sleep comfortably in the same bed as Aster. But it did give him sober nights alone with Eryn, an unexpected delight in the middle of so much turmoil.  
  
“It’s gonna be real different with them close by, you know. Can’t just spend every night getting trashed with us. There’ll be _obligations,”_ the bartender ventures in his best ominous tone. Dante laughs to himself, tilts his head back to look at the man sprawled on the couch with a fond smirk.  
  
“Don’t worry. You’re not gonna get rid of me that easily.” He sinks down into his pillows, lets his eyes slide shut as the ceiling fan whirrs overhead. “Maybe I’ll drag you to some of those obligations.”  
  
A pause. Then a warm laugh from above him.  
  
“That sounds good to me.”

\--

The new place is the kind of unique that seems made for Aster. It’s an old, brick fire station from when Capulet City was much smaller, converted into a livable house. There’s more space, including an actual room for Nero and not just a cramped attic, and the engine bay can be easily converted into a shop and study for Aster’s research. It’s in one of the districts further from the city center but not terribly far from Dante either. They’re a short bus ride away, not hours on the road and hours more across the water.  
  
Even still, as they wander the empty, echoing spaces and plot out where everything will go, Dante can’t help but notice the apprehension in Aster. An unwillingness to explore the house too deeply. Nero is enthusiastic as always, rushing from the rented moving truck with bags of his toys to scatter across his new room, but she hesitates. Stands immobile, almost paralyzed, in the foyer with her eyes dancing over the new and unfamiliar space.  
  
They had left the Fortuna house behind without so much as looking back, the equivalent of tearing off a bandaid, and he can see the second thoughts mounting. It wasn’t just about giving up that last sliver of hope - she’d found her independence and freedom, fallen in love, birthed and raised a son all in that house. And now it was going to sit empty, probably forever. No wonder she looked so conflicted.  
  
“Hey.” His voice brings her back and she turns to face him. “You okay?”  
  
Above them, they can hear Nero’s feet scrambling across the floors. Lady and Eryn are still bringing things in through the engine bay door, arguing the whole time about how to get the couch into the main house. With as empty as it is, every sound echoes. It doesn’t have the cozy, muted silence created by a place stuffed with books. Aster fusses with the strap of her sling, adjusting it for the sake of doing so, busying her hands. “It’s… different.”  
  
“Do you not like it?”  
  
“No, no! It’s nice, it-it’s just-” A brief expression of guilt flashes across her face. “Not home. I’m sorry, I know this was a nightmare to coordinate-”  
  
“Nah, don’t worry about it. I had a feeling this might happen.” For once, she’s the one cocking her head to the side. “I got you a house-warming gift. Don’t go anywhere.”  
  
“Where would I even…”  
  
He’s already hurried out to the moving truck before she can finish the sentence. After a little digging, he finds the gift box tucked between the driver’s seat and the console. It was something familiar he found while packing her things. He shouldn’t have snooped, because it’s never once worked out well for him, but he couldn’t let it languish on a shelf either. By the time he crawls out of the truck, Aster’s come out to the front steps to watch him with brows raised.  
  
“What’s this?” she asks as he jogs up to her, holding the box out. Even with her suspicion, she takes it into her good hand and braces it to her stomach to work it open. The cheap cardboard top falls away to reveal the gift inside. Aster’s eyes go wide as she soaks it in.  
  
“Oh…”  
  
“Don’t- uh- Don’t get mad. But, y’know, it was in the stuff we were packing, and I thought it would make the transition a little easier, and I…”  
  
Inside, laying on a bed of old newspaper, is a framed photo that Aster recognizes instantly. Vergil looks back at her, caught mid-sentence and bathed in pink and orange light from the setting sun outside. He’s settled in the old catch-all chair with a book in his lap like it’s the only place he’s ever belonged. And he’s smiling, just barely, right at the camera. Right at her.  
  
“...It just seemed wrong to pack him away.”  
  
She doesn’t say anything at first but her thumb rubs across the glass. It’s a little piece of home in her hands, as gentle and soft as the townhouse always felt. It’s the part of the past that hurts the most and he thinks maybe he shouldn’t have reminded her. But the other option felt worse, felt regressive - hide him away, pretend it never happened, keep up the front that they didn’t think about him every day for eight years.  
  
After a moment, Aster nods in agreement and laughs to herself.  
  
“You’re right. It’s perfect.”  
  
When she lifts her head, she’s smiling. Really, genuinely smiling as sweet as she can manage and he realizes he’s never seen that kind of joy on her either. It’s bright and sweet and lights up her whole face, makes her look younger. It’s pretty and he thinks he’s probably the only person who’s seen this smile in years. Like it’s something reserved for his twin. So he knows the gift was pretty good.  
  
“Thanks, Dante.”  
  
He beams back at her with pride swelling up so intensely in his chest he’s worried it might burst out. It must make him look like a complete oaf with the way she laughs again. But he doesn’t care. He just reaches out, puts a hand on his sister’s good shoulder, and guides her into the house.

\--

Eventually, they settle in. Her shoulder heals, for the most part, though the scar has yet to fade. Rooms are arranged and painted, books stacked on shelves, furniture positioned and repositioned until it’s satisfactory. Nero’s room has the space for a reading chair, for more toys, and is still lit by twinkling fairy lights. The old engine bay becomes her study and her new storefront. Her desk takes a spot next to one of the windows and gradually it and the shelves around it become cluttered with books and research instruments.  
  
And one day, Aster takes the photo of Vergil out of its gift box, dusts it off, and sets it on her desk. She stares at it for too long and it aches, but not as much as before. Fortuna had too many memories and she was drowning in them there. This city is different. It’s a new life.  
  
“Mom!”  
  
She turns to the door connecting the shop to the main house. Nero’s standing there in a handsome uniform of plaid pants and a blue blazer. The crest on the front pocket reads _Falstaff Academy._ He hops from foot to foot, as though he might explode from anticipation at any moment.  
  
“I can’t be late for my first day! C’mon!”  
  
“Are… are you _sure_ you want to do this?” she asks. Her question is answered by a long, annoyed groan. They’ve had this conversation a hundred times already and he’s dead set on it. Even if it’s a disaster, he says he _needs_ to try going to school. Kyrie tells him about hers all the time in her letters and the envy is driving him up a wall. “Okay, okay. Do you have your lunch?”  
  
“Uncle Dante said he’s gonna take me today, remember? Come on-nnnn, you’re stalling!”  
  
She is. Aster can’t help it. He’s so small and the school seems so big and she knows how kids can be. The idea of leaving him to his own devices surrounded by people she doesn’t know makes her nerves itch. But she’s already agreed to it and he’d be furious if she backed out.  
  
“Can I at least come to lunch too? Please?”  
  
Her son sighs deeply, huffing his silvery locks out of his eyes, and tries to appear stern. She knows she’s coddling him. Eventually, she’ll have to stop. Dante still wants to teach him the basics of fighting and Nero’s started insisting he wants that too. But right now, she wants him to just be her little boy for a while longer and when his faux-scowl breaks into a grin, she knows he doesn’t _really_ mind.  
  
“Yeah, of course.”  
  
A smile alights across her face and she throws her hands up in mock surrender. “Okay. Go wait for me outside. I need to find my coat.” Nero bobbles his head excitedly and rushes into the house. “And don’t forget your bookbag!” Which nets her a frustrated gargle and the sound of little feet scrambling back up the stairs.  
  
For a moment, Aster hesitates and looks back at the photo on her desk. The face smiling at her is warm and somehow, just as Dante said, it makes her feel like it’s okay. Like it’s not a crime for this to be home now.  
  
She hunts down her jacket, lets her hair fold itself into a braid, and walks out into the morning to take Nero’s hand.


End file.
